Collisions Change Everything
by 221bhannah
Summary: John is involved in a car crash that isn't entirely as it seems, Sherlock is being left threatening messages with a strange familiarity, but Mycroft is hiding them from him, and John and Sherlock haven't been getting on well since Sherlock's return from the 'dead'. What else could possibly go wrong? Non Series 3 compliant / Series 3 AU. DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock etc
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

It was pouring with rain outside, and the weather was only set to get worse over the course of the day. John was already in a foul mood, which was only made worse when his phone rang, and he saw that the called was Sherlock. He picked up the phone but didn't say any form of greeting, not that Sherlock would notice anyway; he was never one for formalities.

"John, when do you want to move back into Baker Street?"

John sighed into his phone. He was fed up with Sherlock's pestering. Sherlock had been gone for two years, and now he expected John to just pick up where they'd left off. Well, he was wrong; John had changed in those two years, and he'd lost something of the connection he'd had with Sherlock. Sure, he was glad he'd got his best friend back, but he couldn't see how things would ever be the same between them again.

"I'm on my way to work. Can't we sort this out later?"

John could practically hear Sherlock thinking through the phone. "You're taking a cab to work, why? Normally, you take the tube."

"Do you ever watch the news? There's a strike on. I can't take the tube today."

"John, you know I don't bore myself with trivialities. There's a case you might be interested in; I'm heading over to Scotland Yard, why don't you meet me there?"

Exasperated, John sighed again. "Sherlock, which part of 'I'm on my way to work' didn't you understand?"

There was silence for a moment. "You used to drop work for me." The slight hurt in Sherlock's voice nearly made John cave, but then he reminded himself that _Sherlock_ had abandoned _him_ first, not the other way around.

"I need a reliable income now – I can't afford to go gallivanting off around London with you all the time, just so you don't have to look strange by discussing your ideas with a skull rather than a living, breathing, human being."

Sherlock was quiet for several seconds, as if considering something. Then, appearing to give up on the case idea, he returned to the original issue. "Why don't you come over after work so we can decide when you can move back in?"

John noticed that Sherlock said _when_ and not _if._ He was trying to come up with a plausible and Sherlock-proof excuse for why he wouldn't be able to come over that evening, when fate decided to create an excuse for him. There was an almighty crash and John was thrown forward in his chair, making him to drop his mobile, but not disconnect the call; another impact to the side of the vehicle caused it to spin out of control and roll twice before colliding with a lamppost, which effectively stopped the motion. John was only vaguely aware that he'd vomited before he passed out.

"John? John! What happened? Answer me!" Sherlock's controlling and aloof tone had instantly changed to one of horror and panic when he heard the unmistakable sounds of a collision, or several, he deduced. "John, please, say something." He begged. There was no response.

It took Sherlock more than half an hour to find out from Mycroft where John had been taken (St George's Hospital), and then get himself there; in which time he'd managed to irritate the cabbie so much with his irate tapping and instructions to hurry up that he'd been informed he'd never be picked up by that particular driver ever again. Sherlock thought that would be all for the better.

He was met at the entrance by a pristine-looking Mycroft, who grabbed him by the arm to stop Sherlock from running right past him, and causing chaos, loose in the wards. Mycroft pushed him into an empty visitor's room and let go, standing between Sherlock and the door.

"Get out of my way, Mycroft. I need to see John."

"That won't be possible, I'm afraid."

"What? What do you know?" Sherlock staggered back after a sudden thought. "He's not…He's not dead is he?" The word 'dead' came out more like a breath of air than a real word, but Mycroft got the idea of what his brother was asking.

"Sherlock, stop letting your emotions get to you and just _think_. If John had been killed in the accident, he would have been taken straight to St Bartholomew's Hospital, where they deal with corpses, not here, where they deal with live people." There was a pause where Mycroft twirled his umbrella infuriatingly, studying the contours of the fabric closely, as if the secrets of the universe were held between the soft folds of the material. "John is currently in surgery. I could not find out a lot of details, but I found out as much as I could at this time. The accident involved three vehicles, including the one John was in, which was impacted twice, causing it to roll several times before colliding with something. Two people were killed, including the taxi driver, and three more have been taken to hospital."

"And John?"

Mycroft stepped a little closer, and looked at Sherlock carefully before continuing. "John, as I said, is in surgery. I do not know the full nature of his injuries or current condition, but I believe he sustained some sort of head injury, along with several possible fractures."

Sherlock's vision blurred slightly. _Head injury, fractures_. It was all wrong. John was meant to be the strong one, invincible and steadfast. What if he had permanent brain damage, or a severe disability, or _died?_ No, that didn't bear thinking about.

Sherlock blinked back into the real world to find that his brother had eased him into a chair, and was now kneeling in front of him. Mycroft had let his mask slip a little, showing Sherlock concern; not just for him, but also for John. It seemed that John had become rather dear to both the Holmes brothers over the past few years.

When he spoke, Mycroft's voice had lost all of its superiority and command; he spoke softly and gently, with a reassuring hand resting on Sherlock's knee. "John will pull through, Sherlock. He's survived so much; he'll make it. I'll make sure they let you see him once he's out of surgery, even though you're technically not next of kin."

Sherlock nodded his thanks and understanding, not trusting himself to speak at that moment.

After a few seconds of silence to allow Sherlock to collect himself, Mycroft spoke again, but kept his voice low and gentle. "I do care about you, Sherlock. Both of you. John has made both of our lives so much better. I hate to see that he hasn't been so welcoming since your return; maybe this could be an opportunity for you to show him that he can trust you, and that you do care about him, because right now, I'm not sure he believes that."

"You're advocating _sentiment?_ Shouldn't you just tell me to move on and forget him, because he's only serving as a distraction now?"

"I should, but I won't."

"Why?"

"Because I know that his absence distracts you more than his presence ever could. You need him, Sherlock, and I need him too."

The two brothers stayed that way; heads bowed towards each other, postures slumped, breathing heavy, for almost an hour. They were both lost in thought. It was only the possibility that John might be out of surgery that broke them out of their reverie.

John was indeed out of surgery, and in the Intensive Care Unit – a place nobody ever wants to be, because the patients are at a crossroads between life and death, with no way of knowing which road leads where.

After a stern word from Mycroft, the two men were permitted by a doctor to see John, who had been put in a separate room at the end of the ward (also Mycroft's doing). Sherlock took a seat one side of John, and Mycroft the other. John looked incredibly pale, and still had a ventilation tube inserted, breathing for him to keep him alive. Various other tubes and lines ran in and out of him, and several machines were beeping in the background. Sherlock laid his hand on top of John's, and traced small circles into John's skin with his thumb. He didn't know if John was aware of the touch, but it comforted him to think that he might be doing at least something to help, which eased the crushing feeling of uselessness which was manifesting itself inside him.

Twenty-or-so minutes passed before Mycroft announced that duty called, and he therefore had to leave. Sherlock knew – and Mycroft suspected that Sherlock knew – that Mycroft could really have stayed for a while longer, but he wanted to give Sherlock some time alone with John. Stiffly, he rose from his chair and came around to Sherlock's side of the bed, where he laid a steadying hand on his brother's shoulder. Then, in silence, he turned and walked out of the room.

Mycroft didn't look round, but if he had, he would have seen a single tear trail its way down Sherlock's pale cheek.

 **A/N: This fic is a work in progress. The next chapter should be up in a couple of days. Reviews are always welcome. :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Two days later, John slowly blinked his eyes open for the first time. He instantly winced as his retinas were assaulted by the bright light, and closed his eyes into slits, breathing deeply from the strain, even though he logically knew he shouldn't be worn out simply from opening his eyes.

Sherlock just had time to release a surprised and relieved "John!" before John's eyes fell closed, and he slipped into unconsciousness once more.

The next time John awoke, it was a few hours later, and the room seemed much dimmer than before. This allowed John to open his eyes properly and keep them open long enough to realise that his vision appeared to be quite blurry. John felt a gentle hand rest itself on top of his own.

"Hey, John."

John turned his head slightly to the side in order to see who had emitted the words, and had to scrunch his eyes closed for a second or two as a wave of dizziness hit him. He felt nausea rise up in his throat, but he managed to swallow it down quickly.

"John? Are you okay?"

Cautiously, John opened his eyes once more. A curly-haired man with concerned blue eyes was looking down at him. Sherlock. Relief flooded John as his friend's name popped into his mind. At least he had something he was sure of. John realised he was lying flat on his back in a bed, a hospital bed, judging by the smell, and the bars either side of him.

"Are you okay, John?" Sherlock repeated.

John searched in his mind for the response, but he couldn't find one. He opened his mouth, hoping the words would come, but they didn't. Instead, he nodded slowly, although panic was starting to fill him.

"John, who am I? What's my name?" Sherlock sounded almost desperate. It seemed John's lack of verbal reply had sparked panic in him too.

John opened his mouth again and then licked his lips. He squeezed his eyes shut, and focused on forming the word. After several seconds of trying, his tongue finally seemed to comply. "Sher…lo…h". He couldn't form the 'ck' sound properly, making him sound almost as if he had an Irish accent.

Sherlock smiled wide when John said his name, and then squeezed John's hand carefully. "I thought for a moment that you didn't remember me. The doctors said that you might have trouble talking to start with because of the ventilator you had in, so don't worry about that."

John was full of questions, but his eyes fell closed again before he had a chance to ask a single one. The simple act of forming one word had proved to be exhausting.

It wasn't until the following morning that John woke up again. He slowly blinked his eyes open, but rather than seeing Sherlock, as he had expected, he found that it was Mycroft who was sitting beside his bed.

"Good morning, John."

John wanted to ask where Sherlock was, or why he was here, or why Mycroft was here, but he couldn't find the right words. All he could do was slur out the elder Holmes's name. "Myc'oft." He was pretty sure that he'd at least said some of the letters wrong, or missed off the ending sound, but it didn't matter, because it was obvious Mycroft knew what he'd said from the fact he gave a very small smile at John's utterance.

"I sent Sherlock to get some coffee. He hasn't slept since your accident, which I'm afraid has left him in a rather irritable mood." At John's frown, Mycroft decided to explain a few things. "You were involved in a car crash, John, two days ago. You sustained a fractured arm and a head injury which required emergency surgery. At this time, it is unclear of the full implications of your injury. This is the first time you've remained conscious for more than a minute."

John searched Mycroft's face, trying to find out more information, but, as usual, it was unreadable. He was trying to formulate a question when a nurse entered the room. She gave an acknowledging nod in Mycroft's direction before walking around to John's other side.

"Hello. It's good to see you awake. My name's Sarah. Would you like a drink?" She had a cheerful and friendly voice which put John at ease. He nodded.

Sarah half-filled a polystyrene cup with water and then held it to John's lips with one hand, while using her other hand to lift John's head up off the pillow. John drank slowly and with much difficulty, but managed not to choke on the water, so decided it had been a success.

After checking John's charts, Sarah left the room, telling John and Mycroft that a doctor would be in to see John shortly.

When Sherlock arrived back several minutes later, he immediately looked up to see whether John was awake. Finding him with his eyes open, relief flooded his tired and drawn-out face. Mycroft had a short, whispered conversation with Sherlock before leaving, which caused John to frown. He disliked being left out of the loop, and felt he was being told a lot less than was known.

Sherlock took the seat that Mycroft had occupied moments ago and turned to John, studying him closely before speaking. "How do you feel today, John?"

It irritated John that Sherlock had phrased the question in a way that made it impossible to give a non-verbal reply. He eventually found the words he was looking for. "Not bad. Doctor's coming soon."

Sherlock nodded and smiled, pleased that John had said something that was almost to be considered a proper sentence. "Yeah, he should be here any minute. He's not bad."

John knew that was really code for meaning Sherlock didn't find the doctor quite as idiotic as he found most people, which he guessed was a good thing.

As promised, the doctor entered the room a few minutes later.

"Hello, John. I'm Doctor Horton, and I'll be overseeing your care here. Can I ask how you're feeling today?"

John opened his mouth to reply when everything suddenly seemed to go dark, as if his brain had shut down. His body began to convulse wildly, and the beeping of the machines raced into overdrive. Instantly, the room became a flurry of activity; several nurses rushed in and helped to push John onto his side. They held him gently in place, but didn't restrict his flailing limbs, as they knew this would cause more damage.

In all of this, Sherlock could do nothing but watch John as his muscles convulsed out of his control. This unsettled Sherlock more than he'd want to admit, but he found himself unable to tear his gaze away from his friend.

John's seizure lasted just over two minutes. When he was still again, the nurses gently rolled him onto his back. His chest rose and fell heavily, and his eyes fluttered slightly under their lids.

One of the nurses, Sarah, turned to Sherlock and gave a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry you had to see that. It's always an unpleasant thing to witness, especially for a loved one."

Sherlock barely looked up from John's unconscious form when he replied. "I'm fine. Will John be okay? When will he wake up?"

Doctor Horton stepped in, speaking calmly and with an air of control which Sherlock found reassuring. "It was a possibility that this would happen, based on what we know of John's injury, and the surgery he subsequently underwent."

"So you didn't think to warn me, to warn John?" Sherlock was incredulous now.

"We didn't want to worry anyone unnecessarily; it wouldn't have helped, and it wouldn't have prevented the outcome either. John will most likely sleep for a while now, or if he does regain consciousness, it won't be for very long. I regret to inform you that it is possible that John will have another seizure. If he does, we will have to consider prescribing medication to help manage the problem."

"Why can't you do that now?" Sherlock finally looked up at Doctor Horton.

"The drugs used to treat epilepsy often produce unpleasant side effects, so we need to wait to see whether this seizure is a one-off due to shock, or whether it points towards a more serious problem."

"What are the chances?"

"Based on the amount of time between the injury and the seizure, I suspect this will not be John's last fit. All we can do is keep an eye on him for now, and hope for the best."

Sherlock huffed and slumped in his chair, like a child who'd been told he wouldn't be allowed any pudding. He returned his gaze to John, watching him for any signs of movement – indicative of either another seizure or of a return to consciousness.

"We are monitoring John closely and giving him the best possible care, Mr Holmes. All we can do for now is watch and wait." With that, he and the two nurses left the room, closing the door softly behind them.

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair and rested a hand on the bed next to John's exposed forearm. "John, I'm not very good at…this sort of thing. Um, I know you're still angry at me because I left, but it was something I had to do to keep you safe. Moriarty is…gone now. If, if you want me to leave, I will, but I hope we can go back to doing cases again, when you're better."

What Sherlock didn't realise was the Mycroft had heard the entire speech, from the other side of the hospital door. He had a small smile on his face; the tiniest crack in his mask of apathy – maybe Sherlock and John would be alright after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Swirling darkness was all around him. The darkness and the _pain_ that threatened to swallow up his entire being. He was going to drown in it; dragged down by its ravaging claws. He had to escape, to break free and return to the light, to safety.

John thrashed and groaned where he lay, arching his back and twisting from side to side.

"John, wake up. John! You're safe. I'm here. It's Sherlock. Open your eyes, John." Sherlock soothed John, trying to break him out of whatever nightmare he was in. Gently, he pushed John's shoulders back into the mattress, holding him in place.

Sensing defeat, John's eyes slowly flickered open. They darted across the room before coming to rest on Sherlock's face. John groaned and tried to arch his back again.

"Hey, John. You're okay. Who am I? Where are you? Tell me."

John blinked several times and took a few deep breaths. His muscles seemed to ache, and his jaw was stiff and sore. He licked his lips carefully before speaking. "You're Sherlock. I'm in hospital." Even to John, his voice sounded rough and gravelly.

Sherlock smiled and released his grip on John's shoulders.

"What happened?"

"You had a seizure, John, when the doctor was speaking to you. He said they'd been expecting it. It's possible you might have another one. I wasn't meant to tell you that in case it worried you unnecessarily, but I'm not going to lie to you."

John nodded and closed his eyes briefly. He only opened them when Sherlock spoke again.

"Lestrade's here to see you."

Slowly, John turned his head to see Lestrade. He looked a little pale, and licked his lips nervously as John raked his eyes over his figure. They had only met twice since Sherlock's return. John was well aware that Lestrade was only interested in Sherlock, not him, or so he thought. Both meetings had been in Sherlock's presence, after all, and were both to do with a case – one of the few which John had agreed to go on since Sherlock had come back.

"Hi John. Uh, you look pretty awful, to be honest."

"Cheers, mate." John's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"It's weird, seeing you in hospital. Normally it's Sherlock who's got himself into some sort of trouble, not you."

"Yeah, well, maybe it was time things took a different turn." John gave a weak smile. He and Lestrade were both trying to make light of the situation. John supposed Lestrade was dreading having to deal with Sherlock on his own again, while John was out of action, and unable to 'handle' him.

"John. Are you thirsty?" Sherlock asked, already reaching for the jug of water and a cup.

"Yes, but I can do it myself, you know."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow as he poured a drink. "Really?" Making an obvious show, he placed the cup into John's hand and retracted his own. He nodded. "Go on, then."

John lifted the cup, but found his hand shook badly, and that he couldn't simultaneously lift his head and the cup without finding the strain too much. He rested the cup back down on the mattress and slammed his head into the pillow in frustration. "Fine, you've made your point. I can't do it. Now give me a sodding drink."

At John's request, Sherlock lifted the cup with one hand and put it to John's lips. He slid his other hand carefully under John's head and lifted it to a suitable angle for drinking. His hand felt warm against John's skin. John drank slowly, aware that if he choked or dribbled it would be humiliating – having to be helped like this at all was bad enough.

When the cup was empty, Sherlock slowly lowered John's head back onto the pillow and placed the cup back on the tray. John blinked the tiredness from his eyes, but he knew he wouldn't be able to fight it off for long.

"Just go to sleep, John." Sherlock gently urged.

"I'm fine for a bit."

"No, you're not. You're tired and need to sleep; it'll help you recover faster."

John huffed and rolled his eyes, but allowed them to fall closed, once he was sure Sherlock had seen the manoeuvre. Within seconds, his breathing evened out and he was fast asleep. Sherlock gave a small smile of victory, but, as Lestrade could see, it was also tainted with sadness. Lestrade disliked seeing John like this, so he couldn't imagine what it was doing to Sherlock.

After a few minutes of silence, Lestrade spoke. "This won't last forever, Sherlock. He'll be okay again."

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade with a pained expression. "It's worse than you think."

"What, why?"

"I told John that the doctors think he'll have another seizure soon. But it's more than that. They think the brain damage might result in epilepsy, especially with the emergency surgery they had to perform."

"Lots of people have epilepsy, Sherlock. It's not the end of the world."

Sherlock sighed and focused his gaze back onto John's face. "I've researched it. Epilepsy requires drugs to prevent the seizures, or just lessen their regularity. The drugs have lots of side effects, especially when you first start taking them. It could take months to find the right ones, which means months of John being sick and tired and dizzy and miserable…"

Lestrade leaned forward a little. "Don't jump ahead, Sherlock. We don't know if John has epilepsy yet, and if he does, we can't know how he'll react to the drugs until he has them. Maybe he'll be a little rough for a while, maybe he won't. That doesn't mean you won't be able to take cases or anything."

"I don't care about the cases, Lestrade! I care about John, his life. What if he decides it's not worth living anymore? What if I can't look after him in the way he needs? He hasn't forgiven me, for leaving him. Maybe he's too tired to be angry at the moment, or maybe it's just easier for him to act like nothing's wrong, but I can feel it; he's not happy with me, and I don't know if he ever will be again." Sherlock cut himself off abruptly, realising he's said far more than he'd meant to.

"Now you're definitely jumping too far ahead, mate. Maybe John is still angry, I don't know; but he'll come round eventually. You're doing everything you can for now. John still needs you, Sherlock, however much that may annoy him at the moment, it's true. He depends on you to live, and if there are complications, he's going to need you more than ever before."

Sherlock didn't reply, but simply sat, staring blankly at the bed, lost in thought. His shoulders slumped forward a little, and his head was bowed. Silently, Lestrade willed John to forgive Sherlock and move on, before the guilt crushed him completely.

Eventually, after a few attempts at stunted conversation with Sherlock, which were met either with no reply or with monosyllabic answers, Lestrade left him alone with John. As he walked along the corridor towards the exit of the hospital, his phone rang.

"Lestrade."

"It's Donovan. We've found another one."

Lestrade cursed under his breath. "Where?"

"Corner of Baker Street, can't miss it if you're walking along. Did you tell Sherlock?"

"Mycroft knows – he warned me not to say, because Sherlock won't keep it from John, and something like that won't help him recover from the accident."

"Hmm."

"What is it, Donovan?"

"What if it wasn't an accident – what if someone did this on purpose, to leave Sherlock on his own to follow the clues?"

Lestrade was silent for a while. "Maybe… Even more reason not to tell Sherlock yet, then. Mycroft's keeping the hospital under close surveillance; they're safe for now."

"How soon can you get here, sir?"

Lestrade consulted his watch. "I'll be 20 or so minutes."

Elsewhere in the hospital, Mycroft was also making a phone call. "Meyer, you're needed."

Will Meyer was a man of slight figure and average height. He had sharp green eyes which were set in a long but handsome face. His hair was dark and wavy, but he kept it short. Will was the agent who had tracked Sherlock on the ground while he'd been away; working as Mycroft's eyes and ears in a way Sherlock never would. He dived in to assist Sherlock when assistance was needed, and over the two years, they'd built up something of a bond between them. Will may have been 10 years younger than Sherlock, but he was sharp, sure-footed and wise; he knew when to take a risk and when to back down, which was a valuable which Sherlock didn't possess, but which Mycroft knew was needed.

He held the phone close against his ear and was already pulling on his boots. "Yes, sir. What for?"

"Sherlock needs protection, and I believe he tolerates you well. You'll also have to protect John Watson."

"He's the one in hospital, right?"

"Indeed. I'll expect you to be at St George's by two o'clock. You'll receive full instructions and briefing upon arrival."

Mycroft disconnected the call before Will had a chance to reply. Quickly, he slung his backpack over his shoulder; there was no need to pack it, for Will was always ready for any call or order. Wherever Mycroft pointed, he went, not even looking back to see whether he had backup or not. Will was a force to be reckoned with, which was exactly why Mycroft had called on him.

 **Comments are greatly appreciated, and help me to write faster, meaning faster updates! Thanks for reading :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"No, Sherlock, I'm not hungry."

"John, you have to eat."

John huffed. "Says you."

"My body is used to limited food. Yours is not. You need to eat."

The morning hadn't got off to a good start. John had woken in an irritable mood, still achy from his seizure. All he'd wanted to do was go back to sleep, but first the nurses, and then Sherlock, had nagged him into drinking. He had given in to that battle eventually because he knew he was dehydrated, but food was another story.

John balled his hands into fists. "You said they think I'll have another seizure today, yeah? Well, I'd rather not have to suffer this food simply to vomit it back up again later."

Sherlock sighed, glancing at John's hands and then looking down at his feet. "It's not guaranteed, John. It's just a possibility."

At that moment, Doctor Horton walked into the room. He'd heard the tail-end of the argument from the corridor; Sherlock and John's voices had been rather loud, after all.

Dr Horton nodded to Sherlock and then looked at John. "Morning, John. How are you today?" He picked up John's chart at the end of his bed and skimmed through the readings.

"Fine."

At John's terse tone, Dr Horton looked up. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock cut in before John got a chance to speak. "He won't eat."

"Why don't you want to eat, John?"

"I don't want to vomit if I have another seizure."

"John, you're a doctor. During a seizure, you wouldn't be aware of whether you vomited or not. It wouldn't be dangerous because there are people here to make sure your airways remain clear. If you do not eat, you will simply vomit bile, which will hurt your throat more. You know all of that, so why don't you want to eat?"

Sherlock stared at the doctor, impressed with his logic.

John, on the other hand, was not at all impressed. He smashed his head back against the pillow in frustration and closed his eyes. John's fists were clenched even harder than before, and his knuckles were going white under the strain.

"John?"

John shook his head, trying to stop himself from saying something he'd regret later. He was tired and irritated, and all he really wanted to do was fall asleep so he could block everyone out.

Tentatively, Sherlock placed his hand over one of John's closed fists, and leaned forward, lowering his voice a little, so that it became like a soft rumble. "John, what's wrong?"

"I'm fine."

"You're clearly not. Why are you so irritable?"

John exploded. "I don't know! I don't know why but I'm fed up. I want you all to sod off and leave me alone!"

After his outburst, John pulled his hand away from Sherlock's and rolled onto his side, hissing slightly with the pain his sudden movement caused. He focused on regulating his breathing and attempting to fall asleep as quickly as possible.

"Let's give John some space, Mr Holmes." Doctor Horton said pointedly.

Sherlock nodded and stood up. He followed the Doctor out of the room and into the corridor, where they both stopped.

"From your expression, Mr Holmes, I assume this isn't characteristic for John."

Sherlock shook his head and looked at the floor. "His does get cross, sometimes, if I annoy him too much. But he normally has loads of patience, and will only crack on a particularly bad day." He looked up, meeting Doctor Horton's eyes. "Is this because of his brain damage? I've researched, and they say that brain damage can cause personality shifts."

"That is true, and it could be, but irritability can also be a sign that a seizure is on the way. We need to keep a close eye on John from the next few hours."

Sherlock sighed and nodded solemnly; he had nothing else to say.

* * *

Lestrade jumped from his car and hurried over to the crime scene. The area had been cordoned off to prevent onlookers seeing anything. He located Sergeant Donovan quickly.

"Tell me everything."

"Hello to you too, sir. As far as we can tell it's the same person who's painted it as before. The paint appears to be identical. Again, it's addressed to Sherlock, and we're not really sure what it means."

"What's it say?"

" 'Are you still on the angel's side, Sherlock?' Sir, Sherlock must know what this means. Surely it's a reference to something that only he knows about, it must be."

Lestrade sighed and walked up to the wall, studying the writing closely. This was one of the times where he really wished he could think like Sherlock, see things that nobody else could, look beyond the obvious. "What did the last one say?"

"It said 'I was right; you are ordinary, Sherlock.' We need to tell him about this, sir. What if it's some kind of threat?"

Lestrade turned on Donovan. "Sherlock has enough on his hands right now. If it's a threat, then it's a threat to him. Mycroft knows, and he's insuring they're both protected. Nobody speaks of this to anyone else, you hear me? Nobody."

"Uh, yes, sir." She nodded hastily.

Lestrade's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the screen for a moment. "I've gotta go. Manage the scene, will you, Donovan."

"Got it, sir."

As soon as Lestrade had left the scene, Sally Donovan got to work. She sighed. She still felt guilty about what had happened two years ago, even though she technically hadn't actually driven Sherlock to suicide. Sally felt guilty because of what had happened to John, how he had been. Sometimes, in her sleep, she still saw John. She saw how he'd looked when she'd arrived on the scene, with smatterings of blood on his hands and shirt, face drained of colour, and with eyes that were empty. And now this 'accident' had happened. She sighed again, wondering when things were going to start looking up for John Watson.

Behind Donovan's back, Anderson also slipped away from the crime scene. He'd heard her exchange with Lestrade, and decided it was time to take matters into his own hands. If he wanted to get back to examining proper crime scenes rather than this blasted graffiti, he'd have to tell Sherlock about it, so he'd catch the idiot and put an end to it. He didn't like the idea of having to seek out Sherlock, but Anderson was determined that it was something that had to be done.

* * *

Will Meyer walked up the steps to St George's Hospital and entered. He had on a casual get-up of chinos and a shirt – there was no point attracting unwanted attention. Once inside, he glanced around for Mycroft. Seeing no sign of him, he decided to head straight to the room where Sherlock and John were staying.

He arrived in the corridor outside the room to utter and total chaos. Although, with Sherlock, that wasn't exactly new. Just outside the door, Mycroft was restraining Sherlock with the help of a nurse, although Sherlock appeared to be gaining the upper hand. Instantly, Will rushed forwards, pushing Sherlock's back against the wall of the corridor, and then pinning him in place with both hands. The nurse instantly let go, and Mycroft rested a hand on Sherlock's chest to ensure he stayed put.

Mycroft glanced at Will. "Impeccable timing as always, Meyer."

Will nodded in response, then turned to Sherlock, who was breathing heavily, and still struggling in Will's grip. "What's going on here?"

Sherlock's wild eyes focused on Will, and he seemed to relax a little at the sight of a friendly face. Then he lowered his eyes to look at Will's hands, which were clamped around Sherlock's wrists against the wall. "Let me go, Will. Now."

"Not until you tell me what's going on."

Sherlock huffed, and then nodded a little to himself. "John…he's….He had a seizure. Again. But this one was worse. All the machines started going off and then loads of people came in here and forced me out. I just want to know what's going on."

Will started calculating. He may not have had the deductive powers possessed by the Holmes brothers, but he knew how to deduce a thing or two. Sherlock was clearly highly stressed, he hadn't slept in at least 24 hours, hadn't eaten for even longer, and he was clearly on the point of physical and mental exhaustion. Will needed to keep things calm and slow, or everything was going to descend back into chaos.

"Sherlock, I'm going to let you go, and then I'm going to go in and find out what's happened. You're going to stay right here, and then when you're allowed back in, you're going to lie down and sleep for a while. Agreed?"

After several seconds of silence, Sherlock nodded slowly, but didn't meet Will's eyes. Gently, Will let go of his wrists and pulled away. He glanced at Mycroft, who nodded gratefully. They all knew Will was here to be much more than a bodyguard for Sherlock and John.

Will walked to the door of John's room and then entered. Various medical personnel were surrounding the bed; some had on jackets which had 'Anaesthetist' written on them in bold, white print. Gently, Will grabbed a free nurse's arm and pulled her aside.

"What's happening?"

"Sorry, sir, are you family? You shouldn't be in here."

"I'm his bodyguard, so please tell me what happened, and then I'll leave you to do your job."

The nurse licked her lips nervously. Obviously Will's answer hadn't been the normal response. "Okay, um, John had a seizure which caused him to stop breathing. Due to this, we've decided the safest thing to do for now is to intubate him and put him on a ventilator before administering IV anti-convulsant drugs."

Will scanned the room again. "I presume he's sedated now, then."

The nurse nodded. "Yes, he has to be for intubation. We don't tend to allow family to see the procedure because it can look rather alarming, but once we're done, I can allow you and John's friend back in here."

Will thanked the nurse and gave her a bright smile before walking out of the room. Mercifully, Sherlock had remained just as Will had left him. He was slumped against the wall looking drained, but as soon as Will appeared he straightened up and focused.

"What's happening? How's John?"

Will calmly explained to Sherlock what the nurse had said. It was twenty minutes later when the nurses finally left and Sherlock, Mycroft, and Will were allowed back into the room to see John.

 **I'm afraid I'm going away for five days now so there won't be another update for a week or so. I hope you're enjoying the story so far, and please review :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

John was pale against the white hospital sheets, and looked terribly vulnerable to Sherlock's masterful eye. The tube in his mouth forced his jaw down, so his face was the wrong shape, and the IV line carrying the anti-convulsant drugs looked alien in John's arm. Sherlock shuddered as he took in the sight. Slowly, he walked forwards towards John's bed, thankful that Will Meyer was sticking close behind him. Kneeling down beside the bed, Sherlock reached out a careful hand and brushed the sweaty hair on John's forehead out of the way.

With his thumb, Sherlock rubbed gentle circles into John's exposed temple. He thought back to two years ago when he'd pointed a loaded gun at that very same temple to make John look like a hostage, in order to escape custody. Again, this had been done to protect John, because it looked as if he had been forced to go AWOL, rather than doing so willingly, as had actually been the case. However, the look of shock on John's face when he had first seen the barrel of the gun pointed at his head was burned into Sherlock's mind. He vowed never to put a gun anywhere near John ever again, even if it was under a guise of protection.

After several minutes of silence, Will gently placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "He's going to be okay, Sherlock. You need to rest now."

Sherlock bowed his head a little and sighed, but eventually nodded his head wearily. He squeezed John's free hand carefully and then slowly got to his feet. A spare bed had been brought into John's room and was set parallel to his bed, about a metre and a half away. Absently, Sherlock allowed himself to be led over to the bed, and at Will's gentle word, he slowly tucked his long, thin frame under the covers. As his head hit the pillow, he sighed, and rolled over so that he was facing John's still form. With half-lidded eyes, he looked up at Will questioningly.

Will gave a small smile; he'd never seen Sherlock quite like this before. Of course, he'd seen Sherlock ill and weak and vulnerable over the two years they'd spent chasing Moriarty, but never before had Will seen Sherlock look so desperate for assurance and comfort. He nodded to Sherlock's silent question. "I'm not leaving here for even a second. John will never leave my sight, and nor will you, so go to sleep."

Sherlock sleepily glanced in John's direction again before allowing his eyes to slip closed. It took only a few minutes for his breathing to deepen and even out, and for his body to go limp against the mattress.

Turning to the door, Will silently waved Mycroft in and pulled up a chair between the two beds. Mycroft entered the room silently and sat in a chair beside Will. It was some time before either man spoke, and the silence was filled only with the sound of heavy breathing, and of life-saving machinery whirring away.

"You handle my brother expertly, Meyer."

Will looked over to check that Mycroft was being genuine. He was. "Thank you, sir. I got to know him quite well over the two years we spent together."

"Indeed so. Tell me, how much do you know about John Watson?"

Will frowned. All he knew about John had come from Mycroft himself, so surely Mycroft was already aware of the answer. Was it a test? Unlike Sherlock, Will found Mycroft incredibly difficult to assess, causing him to always be slightly on edge around his boss. He supposed that must have been Mycroft's intended effect.

"I know he's Sherlock's best, possibly only, friend. They were flatmates before Sherlock and I went away, and John was good for Sherlock. Of John himself, his character, mannerisms, likings, I know very little; he was in the army, has impeccable medical skills, and knows how to use a handgun." Will sighed and ran his splayed hands down his thighs. "That's about it. Is there anything else I should know, sir?"

"About John himself at this time, no, except that he would die for Sherlock in a heartbeat, which makes him both unpredictable and dangerous; or, I should say, liable to find himself in danger. However, there is something else you need to know about, which must not at any cost become known to either Sherlock or John until I personally deem the time right." Mycroft looked sternly at Will, even though he knew his best agent was entirely trustworthy.

"I understand, sir. What is it?"

Mycroft waited for several seconds, and then closed his eyes for a moment before speaking. "I have reason to believe that Moriarty is still alive."

Will blinked and whispered the words his boss had just uttered under his breath. "No. That's…It's not…right. We were sure, sir. Sherlock was certain he was dead, and that his entire 'web' had been destroyed."

"You were wrong, both of you. Moriarty lives on, like Lazarus." Mycroft raised his eyebrows ever so slightly.

"Why? How do you know he's still out there?" And a moment later. "He's after Sherlock again, isn't he? John's accident wasn't an accident at all; it was a distraction."

"As ever, Meyer, you impress me. On both accounts, I believe you are correct. Moriarty has been leaving Sherlock…messages, shall we say, to entice him into danger. John had to be removed from the equation, and Sherlock needed to be weakened. Once again, Moriarty has outwitted us."

"What messages? Why haven't you sent me after him, sir? This time I'll make sure he dies, and stays dead." A fierce and deadly light flared in Will's eyes like a newly-kindled flame. It wasn't unlike the light Sherlock's eyes took on when he heard about a new murder, Mycroft thought.

"Meyer, you know as well as I do that you cannot go after Moriarty alone. Even with Sherlock by your side, the challenge you did - and will have to take on again - will be immense. For that reason, I have devised a new plan of action. It is not to be changed or dismissed, and it must work, Meyer, because I believe it to be our best and only hope of destroying Moriarty for good." Mycroft paused dramatically and look at Will.

"I'll do whatever you ask, sir. What is the plan?" Will sat forward in his chair, and glanced at Sherlock, to check he was definitely still asleep.

"Once John has recovered, I will be sending you, along with Sherlock and John, on Moriarty's trail. Together, you will follow my instructions and do whatever it takes to bring Moriarty down." Again, Mycroft paused. He looked between John and Sherlock's sleeping forms, blinking a little more than usual, and then returned his gaze to Will. "You must be aware that this mission could kill all three of you. I will take as many precautions as possible, but unfortunately no expense can be spared in the destruction of James Moriarty."

Once again, Will was stunned. Mycroft was actually willing to sacrifice his little brother in order to take down this criminal. The previous mission had been dangerous, but neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had expected it to be something which would end in death. This time, however, Mycroft's grave words and demeanour sent an entirely different message.

"I know what I signed up for, sir." Will said eventually. "I will try my best to protect Sherlock and John, and I will insure that Moriarty doesn't escape us this time."

Mycroft gave a tight smile, but he said nothing in response.

The silence stretched out for two hours before Mycroft eventually left. Will remained vigilant in the hospital room. He looked between the two sleeping men. One was a dark haired, gangly man with a keen mind and a sharp eye for detail that rivalled even his boss. The other was a sandy haired man with a short by strong-looking build, but at that moment, he looked wholly unsuitable and unprepared for the most-likely-fatal mission he was about to take on.

* * *

Anderson stalked into St George's Hospital just after 11 o'clock at night. He used his hood to shield his face from the security cameras on the outside of the building. Anderson wasn't entirely sure why he did it, because, as he told himself over and over, he wasn't doing anything illegal, but was simply visiting a…colleague who had recently been involved in a car crash.

After speaking to a receptionist, it didn't take him long to find his way to the hospital room where John was staying. Anderson was almost put-off by the fact that it was in the ICU, but decided that Sherlock needed to hear what was happening, even if John was on the brink of death.

Through the glass panel in the door to the room, Anderson could see two beds side-by-side, with an empty chair between them. He was mildly surprised, because he'd never seen Sherlock do anything as normal as lying in a bed, as he was now. Carefully, Anderson looked both ways in the corridor, and finding it empty, he silently pushed the door open and set foot in the room.

 **I'm back now. Thanks for all your reviews and follows while I've been away. The next chapter is already half written and should be up in a couple of days :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

 _Through the glass panel in the door to the room, Anderson could see two beds side-by-side, with an empty chair between them. He was mildly surprised, because he'd never seen Sherlock do anything as normal as lying in a bed, as he was now. Carefully, Anderson looked both ways in the corridor, and finding it empty, he silently pushed the door open and set foot in the room._

Anderson had barely taken two steps into the room when he was violently pushed from the side. Like lightning, a hand reached out and grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back, and then pushing against Anderson, forcing him to press himself face-first against the white-washed wall of the hospital room. Anderson just about managed to stifle a cry of shock and pain, so that all that came from between his lips was a soft whimper.

"What do you think you're doing here? What's your name? Tell me quickly, or I'll make this a lot worse." A voice hissed, right next to Anderson's ear.

"You need to chill, mate. I only came to see how John was doing…and to speak with Sherlock for a moment." Anderson kept his voice low, so as not to attract more attention. Suddenly, he was pulled back and then slammed into the wall again, hard. This time, he couldn't help crying out as his ribs smashed against the wall.

"Don't call me 'mate'. Tell me who you are."

"I work in forensics. I'm…my name is Anderson. Phillip Anderson." He thought things were going way too far now. He hadn't even done anything wrong. "What's your name?"

"That's none of your business. I'm here to protect Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson, so you had better have a pretty good excuse for strolling in here at eleven-thirty at night."

Anderson opened his mouth to respond, when a small noise behind the men caused them both to freeze. The tension in the muscles of the man behind him raked up a notch, and he leaned even closer to Anderson's ear. "If you utter even one syllable, you'll regret it for a very long time."

Then, the attacker pulled away slightly, although he still kept a firm grasp on Anderson.

"Easy, Sherlock. It's okay. Just go back to sleep." The change in tone to such a gentle reassurance sent a shiver down Anderson's spine. This man, whoever he was, was a nasty piece of work.

"Who's there? What are you doing?" Sherlock's voice was so rough and small from sleep that Anderson almost snickered, but then he remembered the warning and clamped his mouth shut.

"Don't worry, I'm dealing with it. Go back to sleep."

There was a sound of sheets moving, and then slow, shoeless footsteps crossing the tiled floor. "Who is it, Will?"

 _'Will'?_ Anderson smirked; so now the attacker had a name, and he was pretty sure that was a first name, which was very interesting indeed.

"Stay back, Sherlock." The footsteps stopped. "This man says his name is Anderson. Does he have any reason to be here?"

A few moments of silence elapsed before Sherlock spoke. This time, his voice seemed more awake, and carried its usual sneer. "Anderson has no reason to be here at all." There was another footstep. "Why are you here? I know it's not to offer condolences."

Anderson opened his mouth to speak, but a jab at the base of his spine made him stop.

"Sherlock, Anderson says he's here to see how John was doing, and have a chat with you. I presume that isn't genuine."

"No."

"I thought not."

Without warning, Will pulled Anderson backwards. He let go with one hand to open the door, and then pushed Anderson forcefully through it. Just as he was about to slam it shut behind them both, Anderson cried out desperately.

"Moriarty's still alive, Sherlock!"

He didn't hear Sherlock's response, because the door instantly slammed closed behind the two men, and then Anderson was pushed into the wall, before being twisted round. Will let go of his wrists and instead brought his hands up to clamp around Anderson's neck, where they applied enough pressure to incapacitate him without utterly starving him of oxygen. Anderson looked up in panic at his attacker's face. He had sharp green eyes and a couple of days' worth of stubble on his face. His cheeks were flushed with anger and his nose flared in menace.

"I told you not to make a sound" He growled. "You weren't meant to be there; Sherlock radiated utter distaste for you. Anderson, you should have kept your mouth shut and stayed far, far away from here."

With that, the grip on Anderson's neck tightened. His windpipe was crushed under the pressure. For a moment or two, he struggled feebly, but then the strain became too much. Anderson's vision faded from white to grey to black, and then his body sagged limply in Will's hands as his brain shut down from the lack of oxygen.

Will dropped Anderson to the floor and left him in a crumpled heap as soon as he'd been incapacitated. Then, he made a quick and slightly desperate call to Mycroft Holmes.

"Meyer?"

"Sir, someone came here, said he was called Anderson. I've taken care of him."

"But?"

"But he managed to tell Sherlock that Moriarty's alive." Will braced himself for anger, rage, or an immediate dismissal from service.

Neither of these things came. "I'll be there as soon as possible. Make sure Sherlock stays in that room."

"What should I tell Sherlock?"

Mycroft thought for a moment, he swallowed. "The truth. He needs to be able to trust us, or he won't tell us everything we need to know."

"Yes, sir." Will lowered the phone from his ear, thinking the conversation was over, so almost missed the final words from his boss.

"And Meyer? We're going to have to initiate the plan sooner than I originally thought."

"But what about John-" The line went dead.

Sighing, Will shoved his phone back into his pocket and gave a still-unconscious Anderson a final jab in the ribs with his foot, before handcuffing him. Then he turned and marched back into the hospital room, mentally and physically preparing himself for whatever reaction Sherlock was going to give to the new information.

Will had been expecting anger from Sherlock, possibly physical violence, almost certainly shouting and maybe a lengthy monologue thrown in too. These were all reactions Will had witnessed or received from Sherlock in the past, so he had a mental plan of how to deal with each one. However, instead of entering the room to find Sherlock pacing the floor and seething at the injustice of withheld information, Will saw that Sherlock was standing next to John's bed, hovering over him and studying him closely. When Sherlock spoke, his voice was low and soft.

"John's sedation is wearing off. I think he'll wake up soon. He won't like the tube."

Will nodded but remained silent, unsure how to handle this version of Sherlock, and utterly thrown by the lack of anger of any sort shown in either his stance or voice. Sherlock took his gaze off John and fixed it on Will, looking him straight in the eyes, blue meeting green.

"Is it true? Is he alive?"

A moment of silence, but Will refused to break the eye contact. "Yes, he's alive. He's been leaving messages; messages directed specifically at you."

"Does anyone else understand them?" Sherlock returned his gaze to John.

"No. But Mycroft thinks they reference things you've said to Moriarty, or maybe things he's said to you."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to nod. "Why didn't you tell me before?" There was no accusation in the tone, and still no trace of anger. Will wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a very, very bad one.

"Sherlock," Will took a step towards Sherlock. "We think John's accident wasn't really an accident after all; it was orchestrated by Moriarty. He wanted to get John out of the way, to leave you on your own so you'd go after him again, and get yourself killed in the process."

"Oh? Yes, I suppose that is quite clever." Sherlock smirked as he glanced up at Will. "I presume my brother has made a plan of action, then."

"Indeed I have, brother dear." The door to the room swung open and Mycroft entered.

Sherlock had opened his mouth to reply, when a small whimper emanated from John. Each of the three men in the room turned to him, and Sherlock pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down. He put a hand on the mattress next to John's own, but refrained from actually touching him.

"John, it's okay."

John groaned and shifted on the bed, arching his back slightly. His tongue pushed his cheeks outward as it inspected the tube going down his throat. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

"John, they had to intubate you because you stopped breathing. They're giving you drugs now to stop you having another seizure." Sherlock explained.

John's eyes flashed with understanding, and then he looked past Sherlock to Will. Will smiled and came closer.

"I suppose I haven't introduced myself to you yet. My name's Will Meyer. I helped Sherlock take down Moriarty's 'web' while he was away, and I'm acting as your bodyguard for now."

John frowned, but Will wasn't sure which part of his speech was being frowned at. Then, he painstakingly lifted his hand off the bed. Getting the idea, Will came closer still and shook John's hand. "I can explain more when you're more awake."

John nodded, and, as if on cue, his eyes fell closed and his hand flopped back down onto the mattress. While he slept, Mycroft and Will explained their plan to Sherlock, who solemnly agreed, although he was against sending John into danger too soon, which, by the look of him, meant he wouldn't be up to joining in for a while to come. What they didn't think of, however, was that John would have ideas of his own once he finally and properly woke up.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

It wasn't until the next morning that John woke again. It was just as the nurse, Sarah, and Doctor Horton came to check on him that John blearily blinked his eyes open.

"Morning, John. How are you?" Sarah was bright and cheerful, as always.

John weakly lifted a hand to rub at his tired eyes, and frowned when he saw an IV line attached to it. He looked up at the doctor questioningly, and he stepped forward to answer.

"Hello, John. Mr Holmes explained to me that you woke briefly yesterday evening, and that he told you very briefly what had happened. Do you remember?"

John thought for a few moments and then shook his head slowly. "I had another seizure?"

Doctor Horton gave a sympathetic smile. "You had two seizures, John. The first was normal, but the second one caused you to stop breathing. You were intubated for several hours, but we've now removed the tubes. We have also started you on a common anti-convulsant drug to see if it will stop you having any more seizures, at least for a while."

John nodded, and then after a few seconds of silence, he looked around the room more closely. Finding it empty apart from a spare, unmade bed, he frowned. "Where's Sherlock? Wasn't Mycroft here too? And this other guy, called…something or other." He clenched the sheet in his fist at his frustration about not remembering clearly what had happened over the past few days.

"I asked your friend to step out for a moment. He looked like he needed something to eat anyway. He'll be back soon. Is that alright?"

John nodded slowly.

"Listen, John. Anti-convulsant drugs have different effects on different people. This drug may work, or it may not. It may help a little, by reducing the frequency of your seizures, or it may stop them altogether. Unfortunately, all of these drugs come with a lot of side-effects. So, I want you to tell me honestly; how do you feel?"

It took John a while to process all of the information that he'd been told. He sat, twiddling the sheet loosely between his fingers while he thought about what Doctor Horton had said.

"I'm a Doctor. Can I ask what you're giving me?"

"Certainly." The doctor smiled. John's curiosity was a good sign; although he hadn't shared it with Sherlock, he had been worried that John's brain might have been further damaged by oxygen deprivation when he'd stopped breathing. This had been the real reason why he'd asked Sherlock and the other two men to step out of the room. Thankfully, though, John appeared to have been unaffected by his most recent seizure, beyond the usual, that was. "We've started you off on a drug called Carbamazepine. It tends to work well with patients who have PTE, that is, Post Traumatic Epilepsy. However, it is only fully effective in around 35% of patients."

Sarah finished checking John's vitals and left with a small nod, the door closing softly behind her. In the few seconds that the door was open, John was certain he could hear Sherlock's voice drifting in from the corridor, although he couldn't make out any of the words.

"John, how are you feeling?" Doctor Horton pressed his question again, seeing that John wasn't going to answer it without prompting.

John ran a gentle hand through his hair and sighed, he knew it would be easier to just get this over with, and then he could sleep, or rather, he could talk to Sherlock and then sleep. "Um, kind of tired, to be honest. And my muscles ache, but I presume that's due to the seizures I had. I feel a little bit sick, but not too much. Is that normal; it's not really my area of expertise."

Doctor Horton gave a small smile. "Tiredness and nausea are both common side effects of carbamazepine, I'm afraid. You'll probably also have some balance problems to start off with, but they should improve with time. If any of that changes, you need to let us know. Immediately. I think it's unlikely that this drug will stop your seizures entirely, but if it can cut the number dramatically, it would be a brilliant improvement. I know you're tired, but you should try to walk around a little bit today, at least just get out of bed and walk along the corridor, with help, of course."

John huffed and looked away. He didn't like the sound of having to get up and walk about, especially if it would require help, which would be humiliating.

"I'll come by later and see how you've done." Doctor Horton paused and waited for John to look back up at him again. "You need to try, John. The longer you leave it, the harder it'll get. You're a doctor; you know that. Just bear it in mind." With that, he left.

A few moments later, Sherlock entered, followed closely by Will, who shut the door behind them both, checking both ways down the corridor before he did so.

Sherlock walked quickly towards the bed and took a seat in a chair on John's right side. "Hi, John."

"Hi." John looked past Sherlock to Will, who had come up behind him, but hadn't followed Sherlock's lead by taking a seat. "Sorry, I've forgotten who you are."

Will gave a small smile and came closer. "We met yesterday. I'm Will Meyer."

John nodded and smiled in return. To Sherlock's surprise, he didn't ask the seemingly obvious questions of who Will actually was, and why he was there.

"Have you eaten, Sherlock?" John asked.

"I had coffee just now. I ate yesterday." Sherlock braced himself for beration from John for not looking after himself, but it never came.

There were several minutes of silence, where everyone was deep in thought. Then, just as the silence stretched from companionable into awkward, Sherlock broke it.

"John, the doctor said you were meant to start walking today."

John groaned but slowly nodded. He knew it was an obstacle he'd have to overcome sooner or later, so he thought he might as well get it over with. Sherlock reached out and used the controls on the side of the bed to slowly raise John into a sitting position. Carefully, John sat up fully and twisted his body so his legs were hanging off the side of the bed, with his feet just centimetres from the floor.

John tried to push himself up with his arms, but they were shaking badly, and he didn't have enough strength. Bowing his head in shame, he reached out and grasped Sherlock by the arms, and allowed himself to be pulled gently to his feet.

Sherlock kept his hold on John once he was standing, and waited until John looked up at him.

"Is this okay?" He kept his voice low; Will had taken a few steps backwards to give the illusion of privacy, but still remained close enough to be able to rush forwards if John fell.

John nodded slowly and took several deep breaths to ground himself. He didn't want to admit it, but he was certain he would have fallen, had Sherlock not been holding him up.

"Are you ready to take a step?"

John nodded again, before cautiously lifting his right foot off the ground, pushing it forwards, and placing it down again a little way in front of the rest of his body. The simple action caused his mind to spiral, and he tilted towards Sherlock, leaning almost all of his weight onto him. He noticed that Sherlock smelt of cheap coffee, so at least he hadn't been lying about drinking it, like he sometimes did.

Will stepped forward to assist Sherlock in holding John up, but he shook his head gently, so Will stepped back again, although he didn't move quite as far away as he had been before. Gently, Sherlock steadied John.

"Are you okay, John?"

"I'm fine." As he said it, John was forced to squeeze his eyes closed as a wave of nausea hit him.

"You don't look fine. We can stop, if you're not ready."

John would have preferred Sherlock to just tell him to ignore his transport and get on with it; it would have been more normal than what Sherlock was actually saying.

"I said I'm _fine_." To prove this, John took another step forward, but he wobbled dangerously, and Sherlock's grip on him tightened.

"John, you've done well. Why don't we try again later?"

John growled in annoyance. "Stop pretending you care. I know you don't. Just leave me alone, Sherlock." After his outburst, John took another two steps forwards, pulling himself out of Sherlock's grasp.

He managed to stay upright for a second, before another wave of nausea hit him. John felt himself start to fall, but he couldn't even put his hands out to lessen the damage. He braced himself for the feeling of bone crashing against hard floor, but just before he impacted, strong arms wrapped around him, and he was gently lowered the rest of the way to the ground. John squeezed his eyes shut, and then rolled to the side before vomiting onto the floor. Once he was finished, he groaned and rolled onto his back, only to find his head and upper body were being held in someone's lap. At first he thought it was Sherlock, but the man smelt wrong, so John dazedly realised it must have been Will.

"Easy, John. You're okay." Will rubbed John's back gently, reassuring him. Checking over his shoulder, he saw that Sherlock was still frozen in place. He'd been unable to react as John had wrenched himself free with surprising strength, overbalanced and then collapsed towards the floor. Will was thankful he'd stayed close by, as he'd only just caught John in time.

"John? Are you gonna be sick again?"

"I'm fine. Leave me alone. I don't even know you." John's words slurred a little, but they were still easily understandable.

"You're not fine, you just collapsed and vomited. I'm Will, and I helped Sherlock bring down Moriarty's web. We trust one another. I'm here to protect you both, John, and Sherlock's here to protect you too."

"I don't care who you are. You can piss off…and take Sherlock with you."

"I'm not leaving you on the floor, John." The stench of vomit was starting to permeate the whole room, and Will was conscious that it needed to be cleaned up as soon as possible. Quickly, he devised a plan of action.

Will looked back over his shoulder again. "Sherlock, go and get something to clean up the mess."

Sherlock slowly blinked back into the real world. He frowned. "Where?"

"Try the nurses' station. Go on." Will smiled as Sherlock obeyed, walking carefully around the pile of vomit before leaving the room.

"John, I'm going to pick you up. It might help if you keep your eyes closed."

John tensed in Will's lap. "I'd like to see you try; you're almost as skinny as _him_."

Will smirked at that, before carefully threading one arm across the back of John's shoulders, and the other under his knees. With a grunt, he lifted himself and John off the floor. John's eyes flew open in surprise at the movement, and he tried to wriggle free, but Will held him tightly in place, and gently lowered John back onto the bed, conscious of the IV line in John's arm.

As soon as John was released, he rolled over to face away from Will, who was lowering the bed back to a horizontal level. Gently, he tucked the blankets up around John, and patted him lightly on the shoulder. Then, he walked towards the door of the room to see where Sherlock had got to, as he'd taken rather longer to find a mop than Will had expected…

 **I'm so sorry for the long gap since the last update. Thanks for all the reviews in the interim, they really helped me to write. I hope the slightly longer chapter made up for it; please tell me what you thought of it :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Sherlock walked at a quick pace along the corridor, in search of a mop to clean up the mess in John's room. His head was spinning. John had practically said that he didn't want Sherlock around anymore. Sherlock had promised himself that he'd only stay around to help John, and only if John was happy for him to be there. Clearly, that wasn't the case, which meant Sherlock would have to leave. That, he realised with grim determination, meant it was time he went after Moriarty once more. Only this time, he'd finish the job properly.

The nurses' station was deserted. Sherlock deduced it must have been time for the morning rounds. For that he was thankful, as it meant he didn't have to bother being pleasant. Tucked away in a corner, Sherlock found a mop and bucket. He grabbed them, and started to walk back towards John's room, when he realised they'd need some water in order to mop up the vomit. Sherlock turned on his heel and retraced his steps, looking for somewhere that might have freely available water.

The first place Sherlock found was a cupboard. He didn't expect to find a tap, but opened the door anyway. Just as he'd imagined, there was no tap, but there was some floor cleaner and anti-bacterial spray on a dusty shelf, so he pulled them down and chucked them into the bucket. He didn't have to travel much further to find a toilet, which Sherlock knew would have a tap. Pushing the door open with his elbow, Sherlock entered. To his relief, nobody else was in the toilet, so Sherlock chucked the mop on the floor, tipped out the cleaning products and held the bucket under the tap in the washbasin.

When the bucket was almost half full, the door behind Sherlock opened, as someone else entered. However, instead of walking towards the cubicles, the footsteps came towards Sherlock. There was a clicking sound that Sherlock would recognise anywhere, and the barrel of a gun was pushed against Sherlock's temple.

Sherlock sighed in annoyance. "Most people come in here for another purpose."

"Put your hands behind your back, Mr Holmes." The voice had a gravelly quality that defined a heavy smoker, and an accent that Sherlock placed as being from somewhere in Eastern Europe, maybe Hungary.

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm busy; my hands are occupied." The bucket was almost full now.

The gun was pressed harder into Sherlock's temple. "Behind your back. Now."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock slowly and carefully lowered the bucket to the floor and twisted the tap off, then put his hands behind his back.

"Thank you." The other man drawled. "Now, open your mouth, and swallow these." A grubby, calloused hand extended into Sherlock's line of sight. In its palm were four small, white pills.

"What are they?" Sherlock asked. He tried to turn his head to look at the assailant, but the gun held him in place. His back was starting to hurt, as he was still bent over from where he'd been holding the bucket.

"Nothing sinister, Mr Holmes. They won't harm you in any way; they'll just make you more…pliable." There was a pause where the man sniffed. "Also, they'll make my job a lot easier."

"Why not just hit me over the back of the head? It would be a lot faster."

Then, without warning, Sherlock thrust his right foot up and out, catching the man in the groin. He yelled and doubled over, giving Sherlock time to whirl around. In a smooth motion, Sherlock span and lunged for the door, but the handle wouldn't budge; it was locked from the outside.

Suddenly, Sherlock's legs were kicked from under him, and he found himself on the floor. Sherlock's attacker fired a warning shot into the ground centimetres from Sherlock's head, and he recoiled, stunned by the force and sound of it.

Sherlock recovered his senses in time to roll, avoiding a jab in the ribs from what looked like a steel-toed boot. Reaching out, he grabbed the anti-bacterial spray he'd found in the store cupboard. With perfect aim, he sprayed it into his attacker's face, aiming for the eyes. A strangled cry yielded success.

Sherlock took a moment to get a breath, and then looked up. His eyes widened in shock, and he tried to roll again, but he wasn't fast enough. The attacker landed with his knees either side of Sherlock's torso, locking him in place. Sherlock's wrists were tapped either side of him under the man's vice-like legs, and he gasped as the air rushed from his crushed diaphragm.

* * *

Will jogged along the corridor, looking for Sherlock. He had a feeling in his gut that something had just gone horribly wrong. This feeling only intensified when he found the constantly-monitored nurses' station empty. Frantically, Will looked around him, and spotted a door in the wall not far down the corridor. He jogged to it and pulled the door open, but the cupboard was empty, save for a few cleaning supplies and sets of keys.

Will scanned the row of keys, and noticed a set was missing. The hook had a label above it, which read _WC_. His heart leapt in his chest, and then he began to sprint. Skidding slightly on the polished floor, Will rounded a bend in the corridor. He ducked, narrowly missing a bullet fired by a man in black clothing; a man standing outside the door to the toilets.

Swerving, Will pulled his own pistol from the holster on his belt, and jumped behind the corner he'd just run around. He stuck his gun out and fired three shots with fatal precision. There was a cry and a thud, and Will allowed himself a small smile. It was short-lived, however, for he heard another gun shot, and then an anguished cry that was unmistakably Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock panted under the weight of his attacker, kicking his legs feebly, although he knew it would make no difference. He could see the man's face now; it had a scar on the left cheek that looked like a bullet-hole, and another scar that went from just above his right eye up into his hair line. His eyes were ice blue, and they burned with hatred.

A gun fired on the other side of the door, and Sherlock jumped. There was silence for a moment, and then three more gunshots. Sherlock barely stifled his sigh of relief; Will had found him. He looked towards the door, and inhaled deeply.

Sherlock's attacker fired his gun, and the bullet penetrated the floor mere millimetres from the end of Sherlock's nose. He gasped in surprise and horror, and turned his face back up towards the other man.

"Good, I've got your attention. We're running out of time, so you'd better co-operate now." He smiled and produced the four pills from his jacket pocket. "Mr Holmes, are we going to do this the easy way, or the hard way?"

"You're trapped now. Moriarty sent you, didn't he? You can't get away, there's no hope left of an escape." Sherlock tried to sound as angry as possible, but he was still gasping a little for breath, as his attacker was crushing most of his torso, restricting the expansion of his lungs.

Unperturbed, the man spoke again. "It looks like we're doing this the hard way, then."

He dropped his gun onto Sherlock's chest, and pinched Sherlock's nose closed with his left hand. In the other, he held the pills out. "Open your mouth like a good boy."

Sherlock blinked, and clamped his lips shut. All he had to do was hold on long enough for Will to reach him.

At the sound of Sherlock's cry, Will dashed forward. He pulled on the door handle, but it was locked. Desperately, Will patted down the dead man in search of the keys. He heard and jingle, and pulled them from his blood-soaked jeans pocket.

Will's smirk of victory was short-lived, as he was tackled from behind and slammed into the wall opposite the door.

"Not so fast, pretty boy. There'll be no heroic rescue from you today."

Chastising himself for not thinking of it before, Will pressed the new panic button placed discreetly on his belt. He just hoped Mycroft and his cavalry would be fast enough.

Will felt his own gun being pulled from its holster, and then it was pressed to the base of his skull.

"You try anything, and it'll be lights out."

Will gulped and closed his eyes. He'd been trained to stay cool in these kinds of situation. Panicking now would not be helpful for anyone. With his free hand, Will's attacker squeezed his neck from the front, forcing it back so that the gun barrel dug into his skin painfully, and crushing his windpipe almost completely.

* * *

 _Why hadn't Will got in yet? He was taking his jolly time._ Sherlock was fast running out of air. He knew he had less than thirty seconds before he'd be forced to gasp in a mouthful of air. But with that precious air would come the pills.

"Open up, Mr Holmes. It'll be all better soon."

Sherlock heard a jangle of keys, and his heart raced, but then there was a gasp, and a thump. His hopes of salvation were crushed just as soon as they'd lifted. He clung on to the hope that there was only one way in and one way out of the room, which meant they'd encounter Will soon enough, whether he unlocked the door or not.

There was only a few seconds left before he'd have to take a breath. Sherlock had told John before that breathing was boring, but now it had become so much more than that; it had become deadly. Twisting his head away desperately, Sherlock opened his mouth and gasped in as much air as his compromised lungs could take.

"Gotcha!"

Fingers forced Sherlock's jaw open, and the pills were dropped in. Then his mouth was clamped shut again, and the man pushed under Sherlock's chin, extending his neck and making it impossible for Sherlock to re-open his mouth.

Now, Sherlock had a choice. He could defiantly hold the pills in his cheek, allowing them to slowly dissolve in his saliva, or he could swallow them, in the hope that Will would be there to force them out of his stomach again once the door was opened. Deciding it was the most logical option, Sherlock swallowed the pills whole.

He was rewarded with a gentle caress. "See, that wasn't so bad. You'll be okay now. I didn't want to harm you; I just wanted to make both our lives a little easier." The attacker smiled, and let go of Sherlock's jaw. He opened it immediately and gulped in all the air he could. Sherlock needed to stay awake as long as possible.

* * *

Mycroft raced through the hospital, with special armed agents running both behind and in front of him. He was thankful he'd kept his men in a discreet place within the hospital, but wished he'd kept them somewhere even closer. His heart was in his mouth. He looked down at his phone to check the GPS signal from Will's panic button. Will hadn't moved at all since the button had been pressed, and Mycroft couldn't decide if this was good news, or very, very bad.

They reached the right floor, and the tension in the air increased. All that stood between them was a few short corridors. Two men peeled off into John's room, but Mycroft and the rest kept running.

Mycroft's team rounded the final corner, and there was an explosion of gunfire. One of the team nearest Mycroft pushed him against the wall and down, and then shielded him with his own body. Mycroft didn't dare to move, and barely thought to breathe.

Around the corner, Will's attacker dropped to the floor amid a flurry of bullets, and Will fell with him, sliding down the wall and slumping on the ground. A rasping cry that could have been _"Sherlock!"_ fell from his lips. As soon as both men were down, the team rushed forward. Three ran on down the corridor, looking for any more of the attackers. The man who had been shielding Mycroft stood, and pulled his Boss to his feet. As soon as he was up, Mycroft was running.

He glanced at Will, who appeared to be gasping for air on the floor, trying to re-orientate himself. There was blood everywhere, but it was hard to tell whether it belong to Will, or to the man who had apprehended him. Desperately, Will tried to pull himself up onto his elbows, and looked directly at Mycroft as he pointed with a wavering hand to the door opposite them.

Suddenly, a bullet flew through the toilet door, and one of the team went door, a cry of pain and shock emerging from his lips. The team fired back through the door, littering it with holes, before shooting the lock. There was no more return fire. Mycroft darted forwards, and pushed through the door into the room beyond.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

 _The team fired back through the door, littering it with holes, before shooting the lock. There was no more return fire. Mycroft darted forwards, and pushed through the door into the room beyond._

The first thing Mycroft registered was blood. There was red everywhere; spattering up the walls and pooling across the linoleum floor. He put a hand to the doorway to steady himself. He looked down, and saw two bodies, one on top of the other.

" _Sherlock."_

Mycroft's utterance was barely above a whisper. He collapsed to his knees on the floor, and pushed the top man off of his brother's body. It rolled and flopped, making a small splattering sound as it landed in the pool of blood.

"Sherlock." Mycroft breathed again.

Sherlock's face and body were coated with blood, his clear blue eyes were glazed over, and his stained hair was plastered to his head. Mycroft extended a hand and held the side of Sherlock's face, threading his little finger under Sherlock's chin to feel for the pulse in his carotid artery.

For a few seconds, nothing. And then he felt it; sluggish and weakened, but there all the same. Mycroft could have cried.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?" He spoke much louder this time, almost shouting.

Across the corridor, Will had recovered enough breath to pull himself into a half-sitting position, but he couldn't see Sherlock. He needed to check that Sherlock was okay. That was his duty, his one aim. Will knew he was bleeding from somewhere, that a bullet had grazed his side, but it wasn't too serious. People tried to ask Will if he was okay, but he brushed them off. With extreme difficulty, he half-crawled, half-dragged himself through the doorway, until he was next to Mycroft. Reaching out, he grabbed the closest part of Sherlock he could, which happened to be his bicep; it was drenched with blood, just like the rest of him. Will had to gasp in and out through his mouth after the exertion of moving. Mycroft turned to look at Will, and opened his mouth to check if he was okay, but Will simply shook his head, and they both turned back to Sherlock when he elicited a groan. To Mycroft's utter astonishment, Sherlock twitched, blinked, and his gaze aimed itself haphazardly towards Mycroft's face.

"Where are you hurt?"

Sherlock blinked and licked his lips several times before talking. "Noh hurr, juss r'gss" His voice was so slurred that Mycroft's fear spiked even further.

"Say it again, Sherlock. Focus."

Mycroft leaned closer, and Will dragged himself forwards further, hoping to hear him better. Sherlock gulped and squinted. He blinked several times. "Juss d-dru'ss."

"Druss?" Mycroft echoed dumbly. "Juss druss?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, and Mycroft panicked, slapping his face. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock's eyes reopened, but not fully.

"G." He gulped out. "Dru'sss g"

"Drussg… _Drugs_? Sherlock, have you been drugged?" It was Will who finally understood him, and although his voice was ragged and low, he was more understandable than Sherlock.

Sluggishly, Sherlock nodded, and then his eyes fell closed. This time, when Mycroft shouted, they didn't reopen. Now that Will knew Sherlock was okay, well, as okay as he could be, he collapsed, with his head resting on Sherlock's bloodied shoulder. He noticed that breathing was a little more difficult than usual, and surmised that his windpipe must have been swelling up.

Medical personnel rushed in now, barraging Mycroft with question after question. "Is he hurt?", "Where is he hurt?", "How much blood has he lost?", "Is he conscious? Lucid?"

Mycroft blinked, starting to pull back. "It's not his blood. He's been dosed with something. Probably a strong sedative. He's just lost consciousness."

The medics nodded, and then looked down at Will. Mycroft looked too, and his eyes widened; he'd forgotten he was even there.

"What about this one? Has he been dosed too?"

Mycroft blinked. "I'm unaware of what happened to him. He doesn't look too good." Mycroft paused and leaned closer, then spoke again. "He wasn't in here, he was outside…He must have dragged himself in."

"Why would he do that?"

Mycroft shook his head; it would be too difficult to explain. Other paramedics rushed into the room, and pulled Sherlock carefully onto a stretcher, already affixing an oxygen mask to his face, although he didn't appear to be having trouble breathing.

Now unsupported, Will's head dropped into the pool of blood. This startled him, and he opened his eyes once more, gasping in shock as he did so. Unfortunately, all this did was allow the blood to enter his left eye and mouth. He grimaced and spat. Mycroft reacted fast, rolling Will onto his back, out of the blood's reach.

"Meyer?"

Will blinked, trying to clear the blood from his eyes, but this action simply helped to spread it. He gasped again, and that's when Mycroft noticed the fresh bruising on his neck. Mycroft grabbed the arm of the nearest medic, and she dropped down beside him. Gently, she felt the bruises on Will's neck, but he pushed her off and tried to sit up, with little success. In the better light this angle provided, Mycroft decided Will looked terrible. Blood coated half of his face and filled his left eye, and his hair was matted and plastered to the sides of his head.

"Sherlock…he was drugged." Will rasped.

"Yes, we know, you told us."

Will nodded.

Slowly, carefully, Mycroft moved forward. He spoke softly. "Meyer, can I look at you? Are you hurt?"

Will stopped scanning the people around him and returned his attention to Mycroft. "I'm so sorry, sir. I didn't get here quick enough."

"Meyer, Will, you did all you could. Sherlock's going to be okay. I need to make sure that you'll be okay too."

Will blinked at his Boss' use of his first name. Never in his eight years of service had Will been called that by his Boss. It seemed to break something inside him, and suddenly Will was shaking and breathing hard.

"Focus, Will. Where are you hurt?" Mycroft asked, urgency seeping into his voice.

"John. Where's John? Is he safe?"

Mycroft blanched; in the panic, he'd forgotten about John. He swung round and shouted to one of his team, who jogged over.

"Sir?"

"Is John Watson unharmed?"

The man nodded. "Yes. He's asleep and utterly unaware; they didn't go after him. We've got guards watching him now."

Mycroft nodded, dismissing the man, who returned to his position. "See, Will. Everyone is okay. You need to rest now."

Will nodded, and slowly lay back down on the floor. He closed his eyes for a second, but opened them once more when Mycroft continued.

"I know you're hurt. Where are you hurt?"

Will hissed as he tried to pull his shirt up out of his jeans. "Bullet grazed me. It's okay."

Mycroft pulled Will's shirt up further, which was drenched with blood; it was seeping from a wound just above Will's pelvis. Quickly, the medic Mycroft had summoned pressed gauze to Will's side, causing him to hiss again.

"It's not deep." The medic assured. "He'll be fine; he's probably just in shock, but he might not be getting in enough oxygen; those bruises on his neck look nasty."

Will lay his head back on the ground once more and closed his eyes. He was still shaking a little, and his chest rose and fell laboriously as he sucked in air.

More medics arrived, and Mycroft looked up. "How's Sherlock?"

"Completely out of it, but otherwise unharmed, sir. He's had a pretty hefty dose of what we think is lorazepam, but he'll sleep it off, and be fine in a few hours."

Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief, and nodded his thanks. He looked back down at Will, to find him fighting off an oxygen mask.

"Meyer, they're here to help you."

Will nodded. "I know, sir. I just…need to watch…Sherlock. That's my job."

Mycroft smiled; Will was almost too loyal for his own good, and one day that was going to be his downfall. "Sherlock and John both have guards. You need to rest now, so that you can recover quickly."

Will sighed but nodded resignedly. "Please, let me sleep in the same room as John and Sherlock. There's enough space for three beds."

"Tut, tut, Will. You really shouldn't speak to your Boss like that." Mycroft joked, coaxing a tired smile from Will. "But, just this once, I'll grant your request."

Will nodded his thanks to his Boss, and then lay back on the stretcher he'd been moved onto. He didn't protest this time as an oxygen mask was attached to his face. Once Will's eyes were closed, Mycroft immediately stood and began making the arrangements Will had asked for, which he'd been planning to do anyway. He smiled; Will really was the perfect man to help Sherlock and John on their mission to bring down Moriarty.

* * *

John woke early the next morning, and turned lazily in half-sleep. He was all ready to close his eyes and doze for a little longer when he noticed that Sherlock's bed was occupied, and much closer to John's own that it had been the day before. Frowning, John turned, and saw that his bed had also moved nearer to the wall of his hospital room. John turned back again and pushed himself up onto his elbows; his suspicions were confirmed, there was a third bed in the room. From where he was, John couldn't see who was in it.

Belatedly, John realised that Sherlock was hooked up to a heart monitor. He felt his own heart leap in his chest. Carefully, John pushed off his bedsheets and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Nausea hit him in a wave, and John shut his eyes to let it pass. Then, cautiously, he eased himself out of bed, and staggered across the metre-or-so of space that stood between his bed and Sherlock's. It didn't escape his notice that walking was a little easier than the day before, and he felt a pang of guilt when he remembered the things he'd said to Sherlock in his frustration.

John tried to deduce what had happened like Sherlock would. Sherlock was clearly fast asleep, but his heartrate was strong. His oxygen levels also looked normal, as far as John could tell. To John's relief, he could see no sign of serious injury, but this also puzzled him more; if Sherlock wasn't hurt, what had happened to put him in this situation, and how could Sherlock have possibly hurt himself inside a hospital anyway?

A faint groan snapped John out of his ponderings, but it hadn't come from Sherlock. Slowly, John shuffled around Sherlock's bed, placing his hands on it for support, and then crossed the next gap to reach the third bed. It took a moment for John to realise that the bed's occupant was Will Meyer, and when he did realise, he frowned even more. If Will was hurt, it meant someone else had to be involved, and it wasn't just Sherlock getting himself into some freak accident.

Will groaned again, and shifted slightly; his eyes flickered behind their lids.

"Will?"

It was then that John noticed the dark bruises around Will's neck. This was something he could deduce; Will had been strangled. But why? If Sherlock had been attacked, Will would have come to his defence, that was his job after all, but who would attack Sherlock here?

"Will?"

Slowly, Will's eyes opened. He blinked several times to focus on John, and then the corners of his mouth curved upwards.

"You're o'ay" He croaked.

"Yeah." John said slowly, licking his lips. "I'm fine, but I'm not so sure about you. What the hell happened last night?"

Will's smile vanished. "I can explain…after a 'rink."

"A drink? Will, did someone try to throttle you?" John asked, half-jokingly, as he reached for a cup of water and straw. When he turned back, Will was smiling again, which made John feel more comfortable, although right now he didn't have time to decide if that meant he liked Will. He certainly hadn't liked Will last night, or maybe he hadn't liked himself for already liking Will.

John held the cup up and Will slurped through the straw greedily. Once he was done, John put the cup down.

"How are you feeling, John?"

This time, it was John's turn to smile; Will was just as selfless as he was.

"Better, thanks. I managed to get this far alone."

Will nodded, and tried to prop himself up so he could see Sherlock. He got half way there, and then the gash at his side pulled, and he hissed at the pain. Instantly, John was in Doctor Mode.

"Will, what happened to you? Where are you hurt?"

Will sucked in air through his teeth, but pulled himself up into a sitting position. "I'm okay. I don't wanna alarm you, but a bullet gashed my side, and another guy strangled me until I momentarily blacked out. But it's all sorted now." Will gave a bright smile, trying to dispel John's sudden shock. "Don't panic, John." He added, concerned, having suddenly remembered that seizures were more common during high-stress situations; something he'd have to watch later on.

"Sorry, just to clarify, Will. How did you get shot _inside a_ _hospital_?"

Will opened his mouth to speak, and then suddenly realised that John didn't yet know of Moriarty's supposed immortality. "You'd better sit down, John."

John complied, sitting down on the end of Will's bed, which was now vacated, due to Will having pulled his knees up to his chest.

"I don't really know where to start…"

"Come on, it can't be that complicated." John smirked, but stopped when he saw Will's expression. "Brilliant. It is that complicated, isn't it?"

Will nodded sympathetically. "Look, I don't really know how to explain this, so I'll just explain it all at once, and you can ask questions or whatever after, okay?"

John nodded silently, but he was frowning again.

"Right. Moriarty is still alive, and he's trying to attract Sherlock's attention again, leaving threatening messages, involving his best friend in a car crash, trying to abduct him…the usual. And the three of us, once you're ready, are all going on a mission that could prove fatal in order to bring Moriarty down. "

"Wait, what? Moriarty… _how_ can he be alive? Sherlock was sure."

"Moriarty out-smarted us, John."

John rested his head in his hands and breathed deeply. Then he looked up, and Will saw something in John's eyes that would haunt him for a long time. " _HE_ did this to me. He made that cab crash? Accidents happen, people are hurt, I understand that, but how can I come to terms with _this_ when I know Moriarty did it?!" By this point, John was shaking with rage.

Will leaned forward, grimacing through his pain. "John, you need to calm down, or you're risking another seizure, which we really don't need right now."

Unnoticed by both of them, Sherlock shifted and twitched on the bed.

John tried to stand, clearly wanting to pace the room, but he was shaking too much to push himself up off the bed. "I wouldn't have to stay calm if he hadn't done this! _And I wouldn't be angry in the first place either!_ "

John opened his mouth to continue his tirade, when he was stopped in his tracks. Both Will and John froze, and the hair on the necks and arms raised, as Sherlock physically rolled himself off the bed, and let out an almighty scream as he hit the floor.

 **Thanks for all your reviews and follows; they really help me to write more! :)**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

"Hey, Sherlock, little matey. Time to wake up."

Sherlock groaned into the cobbled floor, and slowly opened his eyes. He put a hand flat on the floor to push himself up, and then retracted it quickly, hissing in pain; he'd forgotten about the glass fragments on the floor.

"Oooh dear, let me have a look at your poor hand."

Sherlock rolled over and curled up, protecting his hand from further damage, but the man above him pulled his arm free.

"You've got some glass in your hand; we can't have that."

Then, without warning, he slammed Sherlock's hand into the floor, burying the existing glass deeper and adding more to the collection at the same time. Sherlock cried out in pain and tried to wrench his hand away, but with little success.

"Whoopsie, sorry." He dropped Sherlock's hand and gave him a kick in the ribs, but Sherlock managed to stop himself from crying out again; he'd quickly worked out that sounding hurt tended to cause you more pain.

Footsteps receded, but within a minute they were coming back towards Sherlock again. Automatically, he curled back up into his protective ball.

"You know something? Daddies don't like little boys who cry themselves to sleep."

Sherlock tensed; they'd heard him last night. He'd managed to stay silent for eight days, but last night, he'd finally cracked. The sobs that had racked his body wouldn't stop, however much he'd tried to stifle them.

And that's when it started, the whip struck Sherlock's back, and its metal hook tore his skin immediately. Then it hit him again, and again, and again. Sherlock managed to stay silent until the fourth crack of the whip, but then he broke, all his self-resolve melting away, and he cried out as slick, warm blood flowed over his pale skin.

At some indeterminable point, the lashings stopped, and then there was shouting, and footsteps moving away. A crash and several gunshots followed, and then a lone set of footsteps came racing towards Sherlock. He tensed again and curled up, which pulled on his wounds, hurting him even more. He gasped and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, bracing for the next blow.

It never came. Someone crouched down next to Sherlock, and he realised they were talking to him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me? It's okay, they're gone now. Speak to me, please."

"Will." Sherlock breathed, relaxing instantly, and opening his streaming eyes. "Will, you found me."

" 'course I did. You'll be okay, Sherlock. We need to get out of here."

Sherlock nodded, but he let his eyes fall closed. Now Will was here, there was no need to stay awake.

* * *

"Sherlock? Sherlock!"

Will was out of his bed in an instant and running. John shuffled along behind him, cursing at his slowed pace. As soon as Will reached Sherlock, he dropped to the floor beside him, and that's when Sherlock screamed.

"SHERLOCK!"

Will grabbed at Sherlock's hand. Even now, he could feel the small bumps of scarred skin where glass had lodged itself in his flesh, all those months ago. He thought of it now, because he was pretty sure that was what Sherlock was seeing behind his closed eyelids; this was the one that always made him scream.

John sank down beside Will, huffing from the exertion.

"Sherlock, you're safe. You need to wake up. Now." Will's voice was just the right balance of calm and urgent.

Sherlock rolled again and curled himself into a ball, pulling his hand from Will's grasp. He rocked a little on the floor, and sounded as if he was muttering under his breath.

"Will? What the hell is going on?" John asked, unsure whether to reach out to Sherlock or confront Will.

"He's having a nightmare. What's he told you about his time away?"

"No, he's Sherlock. He doesn't get…stuff like that." John blinked, looking nervously up at Sherlock, and then back at Will.

"John, everyone gets nightmares. Some pretty bad stuff happened to Sherlock while he was away; it wasn't a holiday."

"I know that." John snapped.

Will was silent for a moment, pursing his lips, then he turned back to Sherlock, who'd stopped rocking.

"Sherlock, come on. Wake up."

Sherlock gave another soft sob, and then he slowly opened his eyes. He was panicky, and his gaze darted from Will to John, before resting on John. His tensed muscles relaxed instantly when he caught sight of his friend. Sherlock took several deep breaths to calm himself, but he was still shaking badly and blinking much more quickly than usual.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" John asked gently, leaning forwards a little to inspect him more closely.

Sherlock frowned and blinked again. "Where am I?"

"Hospital, in London. You had a nightmare. Are you okay?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yeah. I, I'm alright."

Sherlock gave a small nod in Will's direction. Will got the cue. He knew Sherlock would be fine now, and he knew how much Sherlock hated to be seen like this. He'd never calmed down this fast before; John was certainly a symbol of safety and trust in Sherlock's world. Silently, Will got to his feet, although he had to be careful about the gash on his side, which still hurt if he moved too fast or in the wrong way. With a nod to John, he turned and walked out of the room, but he didn't go too far away; even with the guards outside the door, he was going to leave anything to chance – last night had been far too close a call for Will's liking.

Sherlock sat up slowly once the door had clicked shut behind Will, and leant against the white-washed wall of the hospital room. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes and taking some more deep breaths to compose himself. When John shifted, Sherlock opened his eyes once more.

"Nightmare?" John asked casually.

"I'm fine, John."

"Don't try to bottle this up, Sherlock. I know nightmares aren't just the silly fantasies of kids. I know it's embarrassing, but talking about them does actually help."

"Since when did you become an advocate of psychotherapy." Sherlock snapped; he was too tired for this.

"Since I realised it actually helped. Sherlock, what just happened?"

"It was a bad dream, John. You worry too much. Nothing's wrong with me."

John frowned slightly at Sherlock's defensiveness. "People get bad dreams, they wake up in a sweat, or out of breath, or even cry out. But people do not usually roll themselves out of bed, and scream like you did."

Sherlock gaped for a moment at John's bluntness. "I didn't scream."

"You did, when you hit the floor – are you hurt? Wait, what even happened to you anyway?"

"What's Will told you already?"

"Urm, that Moriarty is somehow still alive, and that my accident was really contrived by him. Will said he got shot last night and strangled – what happened to you whilst this was going on? I take it you weren't sitting at my bedside."

Sherlock looked away guiltily, as if leaving John's side had been a terrible crime. "Moriarty wants my attention, John. Once you're better, we're all going out there after him. This time we are going to make sure he's killed – properly killed. You will come, won't you? I' I mean you don't have to, but…"

A look of sudden panic washed over Sherlock's face. John smiled a little. "Of course I'll come. I'm not losing you again. You're avoiding my question: What happened to you last night?"

Sherlock huffed. "I got ambushed by a man who worked for Moriarty. He tried to abduct me; I ended up with a large amount of sedative in my system, he ended up dead. No harm done."

Despite himself, John smirked.

* * *

Lestrade grabbed a coffee from the machine on the way to his office. It tasted hideous, bit there as nothing else on offer. He sighed. Although he didn't want to admit it, things were a lot harder when Sherlock wasn't around. Even in the few short weeks he'd been back from the dead, he'd solved several cases, and provided key information for several more.

With coffee in one hand and several files in the other, Lestrade shouldered his way into his office. He flicked on the light with his elbow, and then turned around. The cup dropped from his hands and fell to the floor, and the files fell too, landing in the coffee which was already soaking into the carpet. But Lestrade didn't notice. He stared, mouth wide open, at the wall of his office opposite the door; it was covered in yellow-gold graffiti. There were pictures of Sherlock and John, blown up to a life-size scale, and across them was red paint, still wet and running slowly downwards. A shining border of yellow paint surrounded them, with the same letters repeated over and over: IOU. In the centre, across both of the pictures, were the words 'Goodbye, John. Goodbye, Sherlock.'

As soon as Lestrade recovered himself, he pulled out his phone, and dialled the first number he thought of.

"Mycroft Holmes."

"Mycroft, you'll want to see this."

* * *

 **Sorry for the late update. I've been busy with school work and just didn't get around to writing. I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but here it is anyway.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

As soon as Lestrade had ended the call to Mycroft, he hit speed-dial – he'd never removed it after Sherlock's 'death' – and called Sherlock. The call was picked up on the third ring, which was unusually slow.

"Lestrade?"

"Sherlock, um, you need to come over to the Yard; there's something you need to see." Lestrade realised his voice sounded shaky and blushed slightly, wondering what Mycroft would have thought.

"What is it?" There was a sound of shifting fabric.

"Well, it's…you'd better just come, fast." He opened his mouth to add that Mycroft was on the way too, but decided against it, in case it would deter Sherlock.

"Okay…I'm on my way." Sherlock sounded a little suspicious, but didn't voice his concerns.

"Great, alright. And Sher-" The call cut off before Lestrade could add not to bring John; stressing him out would not be good right now. He thought about texting, but decided it would probably be futile.

* * *

Sherlock slipped his phone into his pocket and started to hunt for his shoes – they'd been removed after the incident of last night.

"Case?" John asked, struggling to his feet; he deposited himself on the side of his bed.

"No, something else, going by Lestrade's tone. He was shaky and disturbed, but can't be looking at a particularly brutal murder; unless it had happened inside his office, which would be interesting but unlikely. No, more likely he's received another graffiti message from Moriarty, one more disturbing than any he's seen before." Sherlock ducked down under the bed and huffed a breath of relief as he spotted his shoes – he noticed the blood had been removed, and they were freshly polished.

"Wait, Moriarty's been leaving messages?"

"Yes, directed at me." Sherlock looked for a second as if he would add more, but then stopped himself. Instead, he whirled around and located his belstaff coat, hanging behind the door.

"I'm coming." John said quickly, as Sherlock reached for the door handle; it appeared he'd almost forgotten John was in the room.

Instantly, Sherlock turned back and walked towards John as he stood. "No, John, you need to stay here."

"Sherlock." John's tone had taken on an icy, commanding resonance which made Sherlock stand straight instinctively. "Sherlock, I'm coming with you."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest when the door opened, and Will entered. "Yes, John, you are. Thanks, you've just made my life a bit simpler."

Sherlock stood, mouth still open, blinking. Then, lightning-fast, he whipped around to face Will. "No. He can't come." Sherlock looked over his shoulder. "John, you can't even walk that far."

Will wouldn't hear it. "John, you're coming, put on your shoes. Sherlock, he's coming – I can only watch you both at the same time if you're together, so stop moaning."

John instantly followed his orders; after all, he'd been trained to do so for years. However, he was shocked when Sherlock clamped his mouth shut without another word. Sulkily, he stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and huffed, but stepped to the side to allow John to pass.

Will stopped John at the door. "Have you taken your medication this morning? We want to minimise seizure risk if possible." John nodded, glancing away shamefully for a moment. "Will you need a wheelchair?"

"No, I can manage, thanks."

Will smirked; John and Sherlock were just as stubborn as one another.

The corridors of the hospital were endless, and by the time the three men got outside, located a cab and had all clambered in, John was huffing, and his brow was coated in a thin layer of sweat from the exertion.

"Are you okay?" Will asked him quietly. Sherlock had sunk into a sulky Mind Palace state, and appeared oblivious to everything around him. He was staring out of the window, but his eyes never really lingered on anything, nor did they sweep the crowds with a deductive glance.

John nodded in reply to Will and rubbed his face with his sleeve. Will offered him a bottle of water, which he accepted thankfully, drinking half of its contents in one go.

It took over twenty minutes to reach Scotland Yard, by which time John had recovered. When the cab halted, Sherlock was pushed from his Mind Palace. He blinked back into the real world and climbed out. John was thankful that Will was paying the fare for the cab this time; at least it would save his pocket a little.

The three men took a lift to the third floor, and as soon as the doors opened, Sherlock bolted out. Nobody paid him much mind; they'd grown accustomed to his somewhat irritating presence again over the past few weeks. Will and John, however, got more notice. John hadn't joined Sherlock on a single case since his return, which had started several rumours, so seeing him now immediately set some people gawking. The presence of a stranger also led to stares, but Will was remarkably good at blending in, even in a situation where he'd be expected to stand out.

When the pair reached the door to Lestrade's office – it took a while to get there, due to John's slowed pace – they found it shut, and a certain government official was blocking the way. Sherlock was seething, John could practically feel it, but Mycroft didn't appear threatened.

"Meyer." He acknowledged. "John, I'm pleased to see you're up and about." John nodded stiffly, and glanced nervously at Sherlock, who looked as though he might be about to lash out at his brother. "I was just explaining to Sherlock that it might be best if you, John, waited out here. I wouldn't want to cause you any unnecessary…stress, shall we say? It would be rather indelicate at this time."

John clenched his jaw and raised his chin. Beside him, Will also tensed a little.

"Let us through, Mycroft. Lestrade called me personally; I'm sure he'd prefer it if you didn't interfere." Sherlock almost growled the words.

"Lestrade called me personally, actually, dear Sherlock. I'm simply warning you that this message is a little more direct than the previous ones."

"I can handle it, John can handle it, so let us through."

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. "As ever, brother, I'm only trying to protect you."

"Of course you are." Sherlock flashed a fake smile, and slowly, Mycroft moved out of the way.

Instantly, Sherlock bolted through the door, and John followed as quickly as he could behind him. They both stopped just as quickly once inside the room, staring at the decoration on the opposite wall. John inhaled sharply, and Sherlock stood, still as a stone, taking in every last detail with his keen eyes.

It was several moments before John broke the silence. "IOU…I owe you. You, you used to mutter that, before you…before you fell." John risked a quick glance at Sherlock; he hadn't moved a muscle.

"I owe you _a fall_." Sherlock finished. "Moriarty, he said it to me, on the day of the hearing."

Silence descended once more, until Will spoke behind the two men; they'd both completely forgotten he was there. "So it's a threat."

"Yes, it is." Without looking, Sherlock knew John was clenching his hand and tapping his fingers against his palm.

"Even I could figure out that much." The men startled as Lestrade appeared in his office doorway. "How'd you get in here – the door was locked." He asked suddenly, frowning.

Seeming to come out of his stupor, Sherlock walked up to the wall, getting out his pocket magnifying glass to inspect the paint more closely. "Is this the same paint as before?" He asked, not turning.

"Yes." Lestrade answered, stepping into the room and plopping down in his chair. He placed a cup of coffee on the desk, and buried his head in his hands for a moment, sighing heavily.

Sherlock whipped around suddenly after several more minutes of close inspection. He glanced at Mycroft. "We need to go, now."

"Go where?" John and Lestrade asked at the same moment.

Sherlock gave a very small smirk. "Go after Moriarty."

Lestrade made to stand. "Sherlock, are you sure that's the wisest thing to do?"

Mycroft cut in before Sherlock could make a rude remark. "It's all been planned. They can be out of the country within two hours."

Lestrade blinked, dumbfounded. John took several deep breaths as the reality of what they were about to take on hit him, and Will braced himself, just in case John was to collapse.

Without another word, Sherlock turned on his heel and strode from the room. John, Will and Mycroft all followed close behind him. Lestrade was completely forgotten, calling behind the men, even though he knew it was futile. He knew he wouldn't see them for a while, but what Lestrade didn't realise was that a while meant almost five months, and that none of them would be the same when they returned.

John finally spoke once the lift door closed behind them. "Sherlock, what's going on?"

"We're going after Moriarty. I can't go alone this time – I need both you and Will to…assist." He almost hissed the last word, clearly annoyed about his obvious need for help.

They left Scotland Yard to find that, almost unsurprisingly, a car was already waiting for them. The black vehicle had tinted windows, and it was large. All four men climbed in, and John hid a smirk as he spotted Anthea, glued to her phone as ever, frantically texting away.

Mycroft looked up when they were all settled. "I've made arrangements for personal belongings; there'll be no time for goodbyes, but sentiment is unhelpful anyway. John, your gun will be on hand shortly, and Meyer, you'll receive extra bullets for your pistol soon. Current intelligence places Moriarty in Italy, so that's where you'll start."

An hour and twenty minutes later, after a further briefing and speedy collection of belongings, Sherlock, John and Will stood next to a small private jet, which would soon be flying them to the south of Italy. Mycroft walked slowly over to the three men, coming first to stand in front of Will Meyer.

"I trust you will bring them back safely."

Will nodded. "Yes, sir."

"You will be rewarded greatly upon your return, in any way you choose."

"Thank you, sir. For your generosity." Will smiled; he didn't add that returning at all would be reward enough.

Mycroft gave the smallest hint of a smile, and then Will turned, walking away up the steps and onto the plane. His back was straight and his head was held high – it would not be how he would return. Mycroft watched him go in silence, and then turned to John.

"Dr Watson, I know you are not in the best of health, but I know you will remain loyal." John could see in his eyes that there was more Mycroft wanted to say, but he stopped himself, clearly not wanting to sound any more sentimental.

"I won't let anything happen, Mycroft, to either of them."

Mycroft said nothing in response.

Finally, Mycroft turned to his brother. He waited until they were alone before speaking. "You must succeed this time, Sherlock. The stakes are higher than ever. You have help with you, but you must do whatever it takes to bring down Moriarty, whatever the sacrifice may be."

"Don't worry, Mycroft. I will not become sentimental." The last part of the sentence remained unsaid.

Mycroft nodded and swallowed. He smiled a little, the corners of his mouth turning up just a small amount. "Good."

Then, he extended his hand, and Sherlock took it. "Until the next time, brother dear."

"Goodbye, Mycroft."

Sherlock let go and walked away; he fought the temptation to look back as he climbed the steps to the plane. Their farewell had felt far too final for his liking, but, against Sherlock's better hopes, it had felt right.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

 _Three Months Later_

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The word swirled around and around in Sherlock's head like a verbal tornado. Why had he been _so stupid_? He should have seen it coming, should have realised sooner. It was too late now, there was nothing Sherlock could do but break his cover and go after John. Why had he let John go first? John was still recovering; his seizures were down to one or two a week now, so long as John always took his medication, but still, Sherlock shouldn't have let him go first.

Sherlock was crouched behind a load of wooden storage crates, cowering in their shadow. What was in them, he didn't really know, but that didn't really matter; Sherlock observed that they seemed to be old, probably unused for several years. He was conscious that as soon as he ran, the laser pointers would be on him. Maybe if he ran in a zig-zag, the snipers would miss him… Sherlock shook his head; it was unlikely. This was no time for logic. Mycroft had always taught Sherlock not to forget about logic when sentiment came into a matter, but it was much harder than his brother had made out; maybe Mycroft had never properly experienced friendship, never had a chance at sentiment. Sherlock felt a pang of guilt – if he knew one thing, it was that Mycroft was definitely sentimental when it came to him.

John had been jumped from behind and pushed to the floor by two masked men, his gun was tossed aside, and he grunted as he fought. All of Sherlock's thoughts flooded him in less than a second, and then he was up and running. He would have made it half way across the open floor before the snipers trained on him, but Will grabbed Sherlock's arm as he lunged out from behind the crates that had been his cover, his nimble fingers hooking around Sherlock's thin wrist.

 _"Sherlock!"_

Will's exclamation was like a stage whisper, and within a moment, floodlights came on across the warehouse, to an extent where Sherlock was forced to squint while his eyes adjusted. Angrily, he tore his arm free from Will's grip, and then Sherlock was up again and running for John, who had gone disturbingly still under his two attackers. Vaguely, Sherlock was aware of Will's hurried footsteps behind him. Despite the risks and Will's obvious reservations, he wouldn't abandon Sherlock - and John - now.

This had all gone terribly wrong.

A click, and something whizzed past Sherlock's ear. He kept going, running towards John; Sherlock was only about thirty metres away now. His feet were pounding the concrete, and his heart thudded in his chest.

Another click, and then an impact. Sherlock was hit. He waited for the burst of pain, the spurt of blood and the tremors of shock. They didn't come.

"Sherlock!"

Will called again, desperately. Sherlock didn't respond, he was too busy thinking, too busy calculating. He'd definitely been hit, but it wasn't a bullet. It was smaller, lighter; a tiny pinch of pain, rather than an atomic explosion.

A sudden wave of dizziness, and then Sherlock was on his knees. He didn't remember losing his footing, but suddenly his hands were supporting him, palms face down on the floor, and he was blinking desperately to clear his vision.

 _Dart Gun._ Not a bullet, a needle, shot through the air and straight into his thigh. Sherlock knew he only had seconds of consciousness left, mere seconds to do something. He turned desperately, trying to locate Will.

Will presented himself; he crashed to the floor only a few feet to Sherlock's right, gasping for breath and grappling with the plastic and metal protruding menacingly from his leg. He looked up, and they locked eyes. Blue met green, and in that moment, they became one body. Like a mirror of emotions, Sherlock saw the desperation, panic, despair and raw fear in Will's eyes. He knew Will saw the same in his eyes. Entranced, both men held their breath, unable to look away, unable to move, unable to speak. Time stood still, it was a look, a shared feeling of two men who knew that they had nothing left to lose, and nothing to gain either.

The moment was broken as another wave of dizziness drove Sherlock to the floor. He crashed into the concrete ungracefully and inelegantly. Somewhere, in a distant part of Sherlock's mind, he registered the chuckle that could only belong to one man. In his last seconds of consciousness, Sherlock stretched his neck, craning it to see John. He was clearly unconscious – Sherlock hoped it was just unconscious, not anything more…permanent – and his two attackers were picking up his limp body. John's head lolled and his arms dangled freely, brushing absently against his attackers in what looked like a crude, perverse, caress. "Joh…" Sherlock's tongue was too thick to finish the word.

Sherlock's eyelids fell closed, just as a well-tailored lower trouser leg and foot appeared in his line of sight. The last thing he registered was Will beside him, who choked out half of his name, then there was the sound of a blow, skin hitting skin, bone reverberating within two skeletons – Will would have to learn to be quieter, and fast. With a final sigh, Sherlock lost consciousness and entered a world of darkness, in which he would remain for an indeterminable amount of time.

* * *

Swirling darkness, spirals of light, spinning slowly behind his eyelids. He hadn't felt this dizzy and disorientated since he'd got an infection after being shot in Afghanistan. Was he still in Afghanistan, was he still recovering, burning up with a raging fever? Or was he back in London, in the Royal Infirmary, recovering from the secondary infection? He tried to fight his way back into the light, but the surface was too far to reach.

Thrashing, he pushed and pulled his way up. Black turned to grey; he was getting closer. It felt like coming up from deep underwater, when the pressure in your ears eases; a feeling of relief as the chance at breath gets nearer.

Finally, John was able to open his eyes. Instantly, he knew something was seriously wrong. The room was dull, so he didn't have to squint into the light – definitely not a hospital then. Slowly, John sat up. His head span, and the room he was in seemed to tilt for a few moments. John blinked hard, and everything became horizontal once again.

Quickly, John took a personal inventory. He had no physical injuries more serious than a bit of bruising. An image flashed to the forefront of his mind, an image of two men, appearing from nowhere and pushing him to the floor gracelessly. Punches were tossed, and kicks, and then the unmissable pinch of a needle going into his flesh. That was it: John had been drugged.

Asserting that he wasn't in serious medical danger, John took in his surroundings. He was in a small room without a window. The walls were bare, a grey cobble, and there were cracks in places. John noticed a definite feeling of damp, and he shivered as he registered just how cold it was. Without a window, he had no idea what time it was, or how long he'd been unconscious; it could have been an hour, it could have been a day, or longer…

Turning, John saw that one wall wasn't a wall at all; there were simply metal bars. _A prison cell_. Despite the dilapidated state of the walls of his cell, the metal appeared almost new, and, when John pushed against it with his hand, he found no sign of weakness. Outside the cell, there was some sort of a corridor; it was deserted: no guards, no patrol, but thankfully no Moriarty either. John had half expected to see him standing there, smiling down at him, but, to his relief, he was nowhere in sight. However, as John knew, that didn't mean he wasn't listening, wasn't watching.

Tired, and mind still muddled from the drug he'd been given, John leaned back against the wall. Instantly, he felt the cold stones suck the heat from his body, but he didn't have the energy to move again. Sighing, he closed his eyes. John had no idea where Sherlock and Will were. He hoped that they hadn't broken cover, hadn't been spotted by Moriarty. If this was true, maybe they would have escaped, got word to Mycroft, and started a hunt to get him back. Although John hoped this was true, deep down, he knew it was only a fantasy. For all of Sherlock's seemingly apathetic words and actions, he did care about John; he wouldn't have stayed in the shadows, watching him being taken, he would have lunged out, in a vain attempt to save him.

So, logically, Sherlock and Will would have both been captured with John. That meant they had to be somewhere here, but John couldn't hear or see them, and he didn't have the energy to call out. He decided to get some more rest, and then maybe he'd be able to formulate a better plan of action.

* * *

Swirling darkness, spirals of light, spinning slowly behind his eyelids. He hadn't felt this dizzy and disorientated since he'd been knocked out during combat training while qualifying for MI6. But he knew he wasn't at GCHQ now. If he was, there'd be medical professionals rushing about around him, and people trying to get him to open his eyes, to say something, to tell them he was alright.

He shifted on the floor, and a sharp stab of pain flew through his head. It felt as if a long, thin knife was being forced into his brain repeatedly. He stilled and tried to steady his breathing. Slowly, the pain abated to a dull throb. That was good, that was manageable.

Carefully, Will opened his eyes. To his relief, there was no blinding light to greet him. He raised his right hand to his head, and gently felt along his temple, it didn't take long to locate the large lump just inside his hairline. Will calculated that he must have been hit two to three hours previously. He had a vague recollection of trying to call Sherlock's name, and then of being kicked harshly, after he'd tried to pull the needle from his thigh muscle. Ah, yes, the needle; he'd been drugged, although he wasn't sure what with.

After waiting several minutes, Will slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. He used his hands to steady himself, and the pain in his head increased for several seconds to an almost unbearable level. Will decided he'd try to move as little as possible; he wished he had a few paracetamol, but, sadly, he had no such luxuries offered to him, not even a drink of water.

Moving incredibly slowly, Will settled himself against the cobbled walls of his cell. He faced outwards, looking through the metal bars of the far wall, looking and listening for anything that might add more clarity to the situation. He didn't realise that, at the other end of the corridor, John was mirroring his posture and thoughts almost exactly.

* * *

Swirling darkness, spirals of light, spinning slowly behind his eyelids. He hadn't felt this dizzy and disorientated since he'd been rescued from the Serbian prison during his time away defeating Moriarty's web. Except he hadn't defeated it, not fully. Moriarty had, like him, faked his suicide. How had he missed it? How had they both faked their suicides at each other? It was more ridiculous than the stories the press had formulated.

"Come on, Sherlock. It's time to wake up, I'm booreed." That voice. It was so familiar. It haunted a room deep within the dungeons of Sherlock's Mind Palace. But he wasn't in his Mind Palace now, which meant the voice had to be real.

Somewhat groggily, Sherlock forced his eyes open.

"Finally! You know, Sherlock, I was beginning to wonder if I'd got the dose wrong." Moriarty smirked down at him, stepping from one foot from the other in a controlled form of glee.

Sherlock brought a hand up to rub his face, and then slowly sat up, fighting off the waves of dizziness as they hit him. He took a few deep breaths to clear his head, and then glared up at Moriarty.

"I was under the impression…that you were dead."

Moriarty smirked. "Well, that was rather the idea. But you made a terrible mess of my 'Web', as you so lovingly called it, so I decided I needed to come back and sort it out."

Sherlock hummed in response, and then an image flashed up in his mind of a limp, unresponsive John being carried away by two of Moriarty's men. "Where's John?" The question flew out of his mouth before Sherlock could weigh up the risks of asking after his friend's health.

Moriarty appeared to be a little annoyed with the sentiment – Sherlock wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not… probably not. "John's fine, for now. No need to worry yourself, Sherlock dear."

"And Will?"

"Will? Oh, is that the name of the other guy tagging along with you these days? Yes, he's fine too. They're both perfectly fine, wonderful, in fact."

Sherlock wasn't entirely convinced, but decided to drop the matter for the time being.

Moriarty circled Sherlock once, twice, and then spoke again. "Well, I really must go now. I've got lots to do, thanks to your meddling." Mock anger filtered into his voice, and it sent a chill down Sherlock's spine.

Just as he reached the bars, unlocked the heavy-duty padlock and made to leave, Moriarty turned, as if suddenly remembering something. Sherlock wasn't fooled – every word of this operation was probably planned out in advance. "It was silly of John to leave his medication in his pocket; it's far too easy for something like that to just…slip out. Oh well, sleep well, and we'll catch up again later."

Sherlock's heart dropped; his worst fears had just been confirmed. Without his meds, it was only a matter of time before things would go downhill for John.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

Trying to calculate the passage of time was extremely difficult in the Dungeon, as John had started calling it. With no window and no set routine, it was almost impossible to tell how long he'd been trapped. John was sure of one thing, however: if he was stuck here much longer, he was bound to have a seizure sooner or later. His best guess was that he'd been in his cell for around 24-36 hours, based on John's feelings of hunger and desperate, by now, thirst. However, the boredom made John realise that time might not be passing as fast as he was hoping. As much as he loathed Moriarty, John found himself almost looking forward to the moment when he would hear the familiar footsteps and sing-song voice.

Almost. John regretted these thoughts as soon as he did hear someone approaching. Preparing himself, John tried to sit up straighter against the wall. He would have stood if he could, but John decided that lack of food and drink would make this option unwise.

Moriarty appeared, and stopped in front of John's cell, facing him head on. He had a smirk on his face, and quirked one eyebrow up ever so slightly, as if to give an impression of curiosity. It was almost like he was surprised to see John sitting there, although John knew that Moriarty would have known exactly where he was, and what he'd been up to since he'd been there. As ever, Moriarty was wearing an impeccable suit, silver-grey with thin, almost pin-stripe black lines running down it. His shoes were polished to perfection, and his dark blue tie was perfectly straight. Moriarty's hair was gelled and combed in its usual fashion, swept back and a little to the side. He looked more like an investment banker than a criminal mastermind.

"Hello, _Doctor_ Watson."

The emphasis on his title unnerved John a little, and he fought not to show any of his discomfort.

"Hello, _Mister_ Moriarty." John echoed mockingly.

Moriarty's smile grew wider. "How are you feeling, John?"

John noted the switch to his first name, but decided not to please Moriarty by responding as he had before; he realised it had been a mistake.

"I'm fine. How long have I been here?"

Moriarty nodded a little to himself. "Yes, I suppose you are fine, at the moment. It's such a shame you've misplaced your anti-convulsant medication; that was careless of you. I'm so sorry to hear about your 'accident' by the way."

Mock sympathy. John bristled. "How long have I been here?"

"Insistent, aren't you." He sighed, as if John was causing a great problem for him. "You've been here just over a full day and night now. So, how long before you have a seizure? What's your diagnosis, _doctor_?"

John thought hard, biting his lip sub-consciously. He thought Moriarty would know if he was lying, but didn't want an audience for a seizure either. In the end, he decided the safest thing was to be truthful; no point incurring wrath when you're soon going to need medical help from the same man. "Soon. Even with the meds, I still get seizures once or twice a week, so-"

"I know." Moriarty seemed impatient. John frowned.

"So, I'll probably have one within the next 24 hours, as I haven't had one for...six days, and now I don't have any meds." The last part of his sentence was rather bitter, but John decided not to care right now.

Moriarty smiled wide, showing his perfect, shark-like teeth. "I'll be watching you very closely, then." He turned abruptly to leave, and then John spoke again, causing him to halt in his tracks.

"Please, I need a jumper or a pillow – something soft to cushion my head, otherwise…" He tailed off as Moriarty turned back around, smiling devilishly.

"Oh, John, you don't need to worry about that. I'll _personally_ ensure no harm comes to you. Don't you worry."

Whatever that really meant, John didn't like the sound of it. Lost in his thoughts, John didn't hear Moriarty's receding footsteps, or the happy chuckle that accompanied them as they echoed down the corridor.

* * *

Will was a little surprised when he heard not one, but two sets of footsteps coming towards his cell. As he'd guessed, one of the sets of footsteps belonged to Moriarty. The other set belonged to a man a couple of inches taller than Moriarty, who was lean but muscled, with straw coloured hair. A scar ran across his left temple. Slowly, Will got to his feet. His head swam a little due to lack of food and water, and he gently rested a hand against the stone wall to steady himself. The movement wasn't lost on Moriarty and his companion.

Moriarty scanned Will, and then stepped forward to speak. "Hello. I don't think we've met, have we, Will?"

Cautiously, Will shook his head. Training was kicking in: bond with your captor, gain his trust, and then surprise him. Somehow, he thought it wouldn't be so easy with Moriarty.

"This is Sebastian Moran, my comrade. He's going to blindfold you and handcuff you, and then we're moving you a short distance. If you try anything, you'll be immobilised immediately." A pause, then: "Seb's a military man; he'll know all your tricks."

Will nodded again and swallowed, trying to decide on a plan of action. Would it be worth attempting an escape? He might not have a chance to leave his cell again for a long time, if ever. Wasting the opportunity would be foolish. But he would be at a huge disadvantage, with no sight or freedom of movement to help him. It was a hard choice.

Moriarty smirked and stepped back, signalling for Moran to proceed. He stepped forward and unlocked Will's cell. Will remained standing, stock still.

"Hands behind you." A well-educated accent, upper class. Interesting. Sherlock, of course, could do more with that information than Will. Hopefully he'd get a chance to soon.

Will obeyed the command, and his hands were tightly cuffed in the metal chains – getting out of them, even if he could dislocate his thumb without being noticed, would be tricky, even for the best.

When the handcuffs were fastened, Moran pulled a blindfold from his pocket. He tied it just a little too tight around Will's head, so his eyes felt squeezed in their sockets. With a firm hand wrapped around his arm, Will was guided from his cell. His bare feet made a slapping sound on the hard floor, which felt cold on his exposed skin. Either side of him was the sound of footsteps, one set belonging to Moran, the other to Moriarty.

They walked for about 50 paces, and then turned abruptly left, and quickly right and right again. Will was still deciding whether or not to try an escape. He had no idea how long he had left, and even if he did break free, where would he go, and would there be others? Probably. The odds were firmly stacked against him.

And then he heard something.

Will heard, to his right, a gasp that was unmistakably John. Fixated and unable to think properly or quickly enough, Will stopped mid-pace. Moran tried to push him onwards, but he was rooted to the spot. Moriarty whispered something, and Will missed it, but as he wasn't forced onwards immediately, he didn't really mind.

Risking speech, he said, "John?"

"Will." There was relief in the tone, but also trepidation. A fear of the unknown shared by both.

"Move on." Moriarty said, and Moran pushed Will forward.

But desperation took over; Will had only one thought on his mind: protect John. He took a step forward, then pushed back, hard, putting Moran momentarily off-balance. This gave him the chance to rip his arm from the man's grasp, and he lunged to where he thought Moriarty must have been standing. Will heard a movement, and dodged suddenly, avoiding what would have been a painful blow to the diaphragm.

John, seeing what was happening, pushed himself along the floor, and grabbed Moriarty's ankle through the bars, tugging as hard as he could. Moriarty fell with a surprised exclamation, hitting his left elbow hard on the concrete. He turned towards John, livid, and hissed "You'll pay.", before wrenching himself away from John's weakened grasp.

Will ducked and dodged erratically, adrenaline heightening his hearing in an animal fight-or-flight burst. He was vaguely aware of the fact Moriarty was now on the ground, judging by the grunt and whoosh of air against his face. Will turned, hoping to get in a kick, but his head was smashed from the side. Stunned, Will toppled sideways; crashing into the bars of what he presumed was John's cell. Metal jabbed into his ribs and pelvis painfully, and Will gasped, desperately trying to predict and dodge another blow. He lunged left, but tripped over Moriarty's prone form.

"Will!" John yelled a warning, trying to help, but it filled Will's ears, so he lost track of Moran's position momentarily.

It was a moment too long. An arm came up and locked around Will's neck, blocking off his carotid artery. Will saw an opportunity, and thrust his head down, pulling his blindfold off his head with the friction against Moran's muscled shoulder. He kicked desperately and blinked into the light, trying to break free. Will managed to get a jab into Moran's unprotected stomach, and he elicited a grunt, but kept his hold.

Desperately, Will looked around. John was smashing against the bars of his cell, somehow on his feet, trying to reach the pair with outstretched arms, but he was simply too far away to do anything to help. Moriarty had picked himself up and dusted off his jacket nonchalantly. He, too, was out of John's reach. He knew better, now, than to risk getting too close.

Black dots now danced in Will's vision. He struggled still, but knew his efforts were futile. Wherever he was being taken, if he was going to make it there, he wouldn't be conscious to see the rest of the route. Desperately, he looked over at John. Their eyes locked, and Will was reminded of the moment he and Sherlock had shared when they'd both been drugged while trying to reach John. He felt the same sense of futility and hopelessness, and saw the same feelings of regret in the pair of blue eyes that met his green ones. He'd failed; he wasn't going to protect John now. He realised he might never see John again.

"Ah'm soh-rey" Will choked out, blinking hard in an attempt to clear his vision.

John shook his head, unable to respond. Weakly, Will kicked backwards, pummelling Moran's thighs – he chuckled at how pathetic the attempt was. A few seconds later, Will's vision faded to grey, and then he headed for the black of oblivion. Will was vaguely aware of his muscles becoming limp, and Moran lowered him to the floor. It was over.

But it wasn't; Moran had let go a second too soon. Will realised he was still conscious, now lying on the cold floor. He also realised that John was probably aware of the fact, being a highly-skilled medical man. Keeping his eyes closed and his breathing even, Will remained still. He could hear John's heavy breaths somewhere to his left.

"You'll regret this, John." Moriarty muttered, and Will suppressed the urge to leap up right then; timing was going to be paramount.

Slowly, keeping his left hand against his side, out of sight from Moriarty and Moran to his right, Will pointed to where Moriarty was, clenched his fingers into a fist, and then pointed to John's cell, indicating his plan.

"Yeah…I guess I will." John sounded dejected, but Will was sure he was agreeing to his plan. That was good; he'd need to react fast.

Moriarty stepped forward, leaning over Will. Perfect. "How long will he be out for?"

"Not long, I suspect." John answered casually; it was a command to Will, saying ' _Now!_ '.

Will obeyed, snapping his eyes open and leaping up. He used a right hook to catch the side of Moriarty's face, and then pushed him forcefully into the bars, bone colliding with metal. In a split second, John's arms were out and wrapped around Moriarty, pinning him in place.

Will didn't have time to take a breath before Moran was onto him again. He took a sharp jab to the kidneys before spinning on his heel and ducking to avoid a second blow. Moran growled in frustration. Kicking up, fast and hard, Will caught Moran's stomach, forcing the air from him. In this second of weakness, Will aimed a blow at the temple, and it collided, with a force he knew would knock Moran out cold immediately.

Triumphant, Will turned to tackle Moriarty, but he was wearing a triumphant smile to match. Suddenly, Will became aware of footsteps behind him; he didn't have time to turn before a man leapt on him, pushing him to the floor. John screamed his name as he fell, and then released Moriarty, hoping to make Will's punishment less severe. He didn't hold out much hope for either of them, though.

Will was punched several times across the face, and tried to curl as a flurry of kicks hit his abdomen, knocking the air out of him. He gasped for breath and people grabbed wrists, ankles, shoulders, and anything else they could get hold of. Pinned to the ground, Will was helpless. His head was turned towards John, who was watching the proceedings in helpless horror. Moriarty looked between them, smirking, amused by the events, despite everything.

A plastic-rubbery mask was forced over Will's nose and mouth, and his stomach was punched repeatedly, forcing him to gasp in great lungfuls of whatever gas was being pumped into it. Instantly, he was overcome with a wave of dizziness and his vision clouded once again. It was mere seconds before Will's exhausted and battered body surrendered to unconsciousness, amid horrified gasps from John and quiet chuckles from Moriarty.

"You're next." Moriarty muttered to John, as Will's limp body was picked up roughly and carried away in the direction Moran had been leading him in the first place.

"Where are you taking him?" John demanded.

"To visit Sherlock. Don't worry, you'll be reunited with your merry gang soon enough, John."

John took deep breaths, trying to steady himself. His muscles ached with the strain of holding Moriarty still while Will had fought Moran. It had been an impressive display, and John had seen another side to Will, a clinical, trained, professional side which he admired.

"Oh, and John?" John looked up again at Moriarty. "You should try to avoid stress; you know what it does for your health."

John's stomach dropped, and then light burst in a vibrant display in front of his eyes, like fireworks.


End file.
